


Not Your Fault But Mine

by sunsetmog



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Best Friends, Crying, Depression, Discussion of self harm, Drunkenness, Fanmix available, Hurt feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Left out, Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Self Harm, OT5 Friendship, Panic Attacks, SO MUCH ALCOHOL, Translation Available, University AU, boys being irresponsible, boys making poor language choices, boys making poor life choices, boys saying the wrong thing, fanart available, self harming behaviours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 127,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the beginning of Louis' second year at uni, and he's sharing a house with his four best friends in the world. This is going to be the best fucking year ever, Louis can just tell. The best fucking year ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rate Yourself and Rake Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to **hermette, turntlou** and **ofjustimagine** for their help in bringing this together. This started off in instant messenger to **checkthemargins** , I'm fairly sure (all the best things do), and has rather grown from that original premise. 
> 
> Words of caution: there is a LOT of alcohol in this, an awful lot of hurt feelings, some lashing out, poor life choices, distorted thought processes, and depression.
> 
> Title from Mumford and Son's _Little Lion Man_.
> 
> Accompanying mix made by me [here](https://8tracks.com/magicalrocketships/not-your-fault-but-mine).
> 
> [Now available in translation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1933041), by [mafesponja](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafesponja/pseuds/mafesponja). :D
> 
> Fanmix by candyflossandtears [available here](http://candyflossandtears.tumblr.com/post/89933461750/not-your-fault-but-mine-fanmix-based-off-of).
> 
> Fanmix by jessimond [available here](http://jessimond.tumblr.com/post/90788903375/not-your-fault-but-mine-a-fanmix-to-accompany).
> 
> Art by my-nail-beds-suck [here](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/post/92320271333/my-nail-beds-suck-ahhhh-so-these-are-definitely) and [here](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/post/93239255988/my-nail-beds-suck-much-like-television) and [here](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/post/97322422933/my-nail-beds-suck-ssajlhfgsafhgsgljfhglasfhgjl). 
> 
> Photo art by ariadneodair [here](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/post/90377460023/ariadneodair-not-your-fault-but-mine). <3 <3 <3

This is a disaster. A _disaster_. "Liam," Louis yells down the hall, over the noise of _Liam's Un-Birthday Party iPod Mix To Beat All Other Mixes Ever_. "Liam, all the booze is gone."

"We haven't run out of booze," Liam calls back. 

Louis skilfully—if a trifle drunkenly—sidesteps one of Eleanor's flatmates on his way back into the living room. She's snogging the face off of one of Niall's new mates from the rugby team. Liam's sprawled all over their sofa, his new girlfriend tucked up against his front. He has his fingertips hooked in the waistband of her jeans, the saucy devil. Louis waggles his eyebrows at him and doesn't trip over his feet. He's counting it as a win. 

"How on earth do you know?" Louis asks. "You're there being all, you know, busy." He waves his hand in the general direction of Sophia, who waves back. Louis has managed to say about five words to her since she arrived earlier, but she seems like a good choice of new girlfriend for Liam. Louis plans on liking her a lot once he's got over Liam failing to live up to the responsibility of being guest of honour at his own Un-Birthday. Louis has a lot of plans for the five of them this year; their house is going to be the house of magnificent, incredible parties, and subsequent magnificent, incredible hangovers. Less than a week into their lease, and they seem to be succeeding. 

"Because we bought nine hundred million bottles of shit alcohol this morning, and even you couldn't have put it all away by now," Liam says.

"I might have done," Louis says, quite insulted. "Niall, we could have drunk all that booze by now, right? Liam's calling us out. Tell him off for me."

Niall's playing table football with his rugby club mates. He doesn't play rugby because next to his new friends, he's the size of a gnome, but he seems to have been adopted by them regardless. They don't seem to mind that he prefers footie, as all people should. Louis loves football. 

"Oi," Louis says, louder this time. "Niall. Defend my honour."

Niall immediately hands over responsibility for his side of the table to the biggest, tallest, broadest of his friends, Bressie—who Louis definitely, definitely has never imagined being pinned to the bed by—and stumbles into Louis' side. "Are you suggesting we can't drink, Liam?"

"Never," Liam says, but he's laughing now. He's fucking sober, the idiot. It's his fake birthday, and he's mostly sober. Louis is most disappointed. That gold star chart they have pinned to the fridge is getting a sad fucking face in Liam's column, the moment Louis remembers where he hid the marker pens. He's also hidden the gold stars, because he intends on winning whatever the gold star chart prize is. Harry's mum is the best, honestly, and sends them the best _welcome to your new house_ presents. Along with the gold star chart had been three bottles of wine, a box of party poppers, and some highlighters with _I'm a winner_ on the side. Louis had confiscated them all. He's going to give them out only when his housemates manage to truly shine. Liam is not getting one after he's done so badly at the getting drunk part of his un-birthday party.

"I've lost the alcohol, Niall," Louis says, making his best sad face. "Where's the alcohol gone? And why isn't Liam drunk? It's his birthday."

"It was my birthday last month," Liam reminds them both, over the glorious sound of Atomic Kitten singing _Venus_. This playlist is a work of genius. Zayn and Harry and Louis had spent the whole of yesterday putting it together, only for Liam to refuse to get drunk. You have to be drunk to listen to Atomic Kitten and B*witched. It's a rule. 

"That was only your real birthday," Louis says dismissively. "What does your real birthday matter when your best friends in the world throw you a fake birthday party?"

This Un-Birthday Project is literally the best idea he's ever had. It's just _rude_ , having a birthday outside of term time. Everyone deserves an opportunity to get well and truly shit-faced to celebrate the occasion of their birth, and even more than that, they deserve to do it in the company of their friends, and to get as many presents as possible. Hence: the Un-Birthday Project; an opportunity for him, Liam, and Niall to each have their very own party, in term-time, where people bring them presents and treat them like kings and they can have birthday cake. 

Speaking of cake: "Where's the cake? And all those candles? We need forty-six candles, to celebrate how old Liam is on the inside."

"Oi," Liam says mildly. 

"I speak the truth," Louis says. "You know it. Get up off your arse and get some drink down you. You can't be sober when it's your birthday."

"It's not my birthday—"

"Shut up, Liam." 

He comes back ten minutes later balancing a huge Sara Lee double chocolate gateau on a High School Musical lap tray they'd found down the back of Zayn's bed last weekend, when they'd moved in. Zayn is shadowing him like a protective chicken, which is totally unnecessary since Louis is absolutely killing it tonight, and forty-six melting candles pose absolutely no threat to anyone whatsoever. 

Niall follows him with a plastic bag full of plastic, multi-coloured shot glasses they'd nicked from the Student Union during Louis' short-lived job as a barman last year, three bottles of cheap-as-chips Tesco tequila under his arm. He's already bellowing out _happy birthday to you,_ and everyone else joins in, people spilling in from the back garden and the dining room and their bedrooms and the kitchen, all of them singing to Liam. Liam stands on the sofa with his arm around Sophia's shoulders, and sings right along with them until Zayn digs his fingers into his side to make him stop. 

"It's your birthday, knobhead," he says, and Liam laughs, and ducks in to blow out all of his candles. The chocolate's melting everywhere and the candles are toppling off the cake, but it's amazing and ridiculous and Niall's handing out shots of tequila, and this is going to be the best fucking year ever, Louis can just tell. The best fucking year ever. 

~*~

Louis sits out on the back step with the dregs of the bottle of tequila later, freezing his balls off whilst he drunkenly smokes his way through the remains of a packet of Marlboro someone had stupidly left on the kitchen table. 

"Give us one," someone says, tripping out the kitchen door and stumbling out onto the step next to him. 

Louis frowns. Nick Grimshaw is towering above him, a terrible beanpole of torn jeans and smug hipster superciliousness. "Get your own," he says. "I stole these myself."

"Charmed," Nick says, and Louis rolls his eyes. He sits down next to Louis on the step. "I've got my own anyway." He fumbles in his pocket. "Got a light?"

Louis hands him his lighter. 

"Good summer?" Nick asks, after taking a long drag on his cigarette. 

"It was all right," Louis says, taking his lighter back. "Worked a lot."

"Harry said you'd got a job." 

"Yep," Louis says, nodding. It isn't that he doesn't like Nick Grimshaw, it's more that he just doesn't see the point of him, or his friends. Harry had bounced back to their halls sometime before Easter last year, complete with an invitation to a second year's party, and ever since then, being friends with Harry had had a side order of knobhead hipsters, of which Nick was the self-proclaimed leader. Between Nick and his friends, they ran Indie Soc, the most knobheady of all the knobhead Union societies. "Emptied a lot of boxes. Ran that stock room like a king."

"Obviously," Nick says. "This is the bit where you ask me if I had a good summer."

Louis doesn't want to know about Nick's summer. "Did you have a good summer?" he parrots, scuffing at the cracked paving slab with the toe of his Toms. He takes another gulp of tequila and hands the bottle to Nick. 

"Why, yes, thank you, Louis," Nick says. "I had a brilliant summer. Did Harry tell you about the time we were in Selfridges in Manchester and that security guard followed us all the way round because he didn't think scruffy buggers like us should be in there?"

Louis ignores the pang of jealousy that spasms low in his stomach. He and Harry had spent the best part of last year talking about camping and interrailing and package holidays to Majorca and hanging out with each other over the summer. It had all been fantasy, at least on Louis' part. He knew he had to go home and get a job. Harry had apparently spent most of his summer camped out at Nick's, or vice versa, and Louis had only seen him three times. He was supposed to be saving for next summer, when interrailing was supposed to be more than just a fantasy, but everyone knew Louis was terrible at saving. "He didn't mention it," he says, taking another drag on his cigarette. 

"He should have done," Nick says. "It was funny."

"Uh-huh," Louis says, ignoring Nick bumping his knee into his. 

"One day I'm going to be rich and famous," Nick says, a little drunkenly. He leans back against the wall, head tipped back. "They won't try and chuck me out of Selfridges then. Well, they might, but I'll be able to flash my cash at them. Buy something stupid just to prove I should be there."

"You're such a wanker," Louis says, because that's one of the wankiest things that he's heard Nick say, and Nick really is the biggest wanker out of all of Harry's new, wanky friends. He wonders if they'll all be wankers next September, when they're all third years, or if third year wankery really is just specific to Nick and his friends. 

"Takes one to know one," Nick says, but he laughs, like it's a joke. 

Nick spends a lot of time round Louis laughing, like Louis has said something really funny and not terribly insulting. When it comes to Nick, Louis usually finds himself aiming for insulting. 

Louis narrows his eyes. 

"Hey, are you coming to the Indie Soc freshers' party on Saturday? It's going to be properly fantastic." Nick stubs out his cigarette on the ground by his foot.

"How on earth can a night organised by you lot possibly be properly fantastic?" Louis puts out his cigarette with the toe of his Toms and promptly lights another. He never smokes this much. He'll wake up tomorrow feeling like death and tasting like Marlboro Lights, and he'll regret this then. He often regrets it in the morning. Doesn't stop him doing it now, though. "You're all wankers."

"Don't be awful about my friends." He appears deceptively sober but Louis can smell the alcohol coming off him in waves. Or that might be him. "You going to give me one of those cigarettes, or what? That was my last. Anyway, it'll be full of first years pretending to know shit about music. Surely someone there will want to kiss you. You wouldn't want to turn that down, right?"

Louis sniffs and hands over the last cigarette. "I'm not desperate, thank you very much." He sort of is. He'd only got off with two people over the summer, once in June at a club when he was supposed to be getting rat-arsed with Stan and his mates from uni, and one round the back of work with a well fit ATM engineer named Steve, who'd been a nice break from the monotony of working in that bloody stockroom, but not exactly a prospect for repeat kissing. 

Nick bumps his elbow into Louis'. "You should come. Harry said he was going to drag you all anyway. He's bought you all wristbands already."

Louis makes a noise that may or may not resemble _nrgh_ , and brings his knees up to his chin. 

"I'd like it if you came," Nick says. "Come on. Cheap drinks."

Nick is such a dickhead. 

"There are always cheap drinks. It's the fucking Union."

"I'll give you one for free."

"Wanker," Louis says, burying his face in his knees for a minute. The garden is starting to spin, and he's virtually out of tequila. "Think I'm going to be sick."

"Charmed," Nick says, but he does at least grab the bottle out of Louis' hand and shove him in the vague direction of the flower bed. "Do your thing, Tomlinson."

"Tommo," Louis corrects, spitting into the mud. The contract for the house said they had to maintain the garden. Vomiting in the hydrangeas probably doesn't count. 

"Tommo," Nick says, and rubs his back. "Get it all up, love. That tequila's fucking vile."

"Go away," Louis says, and then he's too busy throwing up to notice whether Nick actually does or not. 

~*~

Louis wakes up half in and out of bed, his jeans hanging off one ankle, and the washing up bowl on the floor by his head. 

He stumbles in the general direction of the kitchen, wrapping himself in his duvet as he goes. 

"My head's bangin'," he announces, falling over the bin. 

Harry's sitting at the table, eating toast. "Morning."

"Where is everyone?" Louis drops down onto the only other clear seat in the kitchen, and pulls the duvet over his head. "Think I'm going to die."

"Zayn left with Perrie last night, Liam and Sophia have gone to have breakfast at the West Point, and Niall's still in bed."

"Thought we were all going to get a massive fry up and drink the town dry of tea," Louis says, resting his forehead gently against the table top. It's entirely possible he's glued his skull to the table in a pool of disgustingly sticky day-old alcohol. "What happened to that plan?"

"Dunno," Harry says. "Do you want some tea?"

Louis wants to spend the day in the pub, nursing a hangover and making fun of his mates for being more hungover than he is. That had been the _plan_. That had been a fucking awesome plan. He has the best plans. "Yes," he says, in his most piteous voice. "I desperately want some tea." He pauses. "And maybe some toast. With jam."

"It's a good thing I love you," Harry says, but he's already putting bread in the toaster and putting the kettle on to boil, so Louis knows it's the truth. 

"I have missed you, Hazza, you know," Louis says, and only half of that is a joke.

Harry just grins at him over his shoulder. "Right back at you. What happened to you coming to meet me in Manchester, anyway?"

Louis wraps the duvet tighter around him, and groans his hangover into the table top. "Work happened," he says. "So much fucking work." He whines as sadly as he can manage and waits for Harry to bring him his breakfast. 

"I missed you," Harry says, tapping his foot into Louis'. 

"You said that."

"Meant it so much I said it twice," Harry says. "We should have gone interrailing, like we said."

"Nrgh," Louis says, and doesn't think about his student overdraft or the fact he's wholly reliant on a student loan he's never going to be able to pay back. "Next summer."

"Won't let you off this time," Harry says, popping the toast out of the toaster and onto a plate. He nudges it under Louis' nose. 

Louis makes a sad, plaintive kind of noise, and Harry gets the jam out of the fridge for him. "You're my best friend ever," Louis says, and means it. 

Harry kisses the top of his head and steals a piece of Louis' toast. 

"Bastard," Louis says, and Harry grins. 

~*~

The five of them end up at a tattoo place in town late in the afternoon on Thursday. Louis feels sort of odd, bouncing off first one of them, then another. Lectures don't start until next week, and all they've done so far this week is have Liam's un-birthday party and drink and hang out and sleep late. Niall—who still hasn't come round to the idea of tattoos—gets talking to the girl behind the counter instead whilst the rest of them queue up for their tattoos. She probably gets bugged about her tattoos all the time, but Niall is magic when it comes to getting people to talk to him, so she ends up talking them through with him whilst the others take it in turns to sit in the tattooist's chair.

It's not even Louis' first tattoo, but he's still kind of anxious as he sits down to take his turn, restless even beneath his skin. He'd got a couple last year, a little tally just in the curve of his elbow, four lines and one across the middle. His little sisters thought it was for them, and he wasn't about to disabuse them of that, even though he hadn't exactly been thinking of them when he'd had it done. His _Bus 1_ tattoo was just his and Zayn's, hanging out for endless hours in Zayn's room in halls. He couldn't even remember when they'd started calling it _the bus_ , but they'd got the tattoos just after Easter, before their first year exams had started. He'd got his third one over the summer, a paper aeroplane for all the travelling he wasn't doing, and all the conversations he'd had with Harry about going away, and for all the travelling they would be doing. He looks at it sometimes and imagines their summer together, best friends hitting Europe with everything they've got. They've been talking this week about going together now, all five of them. Louis can't fucking wait. 

He gets _oops!_ scrawled across the inside of his arm this time, Harry watching as he gets it done, huge fucking smile on his face as Louis gets Harry's handwriting inked on his skin forever and ever. Harry's getting _hi_ done next, Louis' writing. Afterwards, when Zayn's getting _Friday_ on his chest, and Liam's talking to one of the tattoo artists about the bigger project he's been thinking about, Louis thinks, _fuck it_ , and goes for a second. His student loan's just come in, he can blow it on ridiculous fucking tattoos. 

He asks for five tiny birds inked on his right wrist, one for each of them, and he should feel embarrassed about this, his second tattoo for his best friends, but he can't. He wants these boys inked on his skin, wants to remember this feeling forever, even when he's old, and over thirty, and nothing's fun anymore. 

Liam shows him the notes for his designs when he's done, his four arrows and the quote for his other arm. Louis isn't the only one who wants to record this feeling forever. 

Louis hangs off him instead of talking it out, bumping his feet into Liam's ankles as Liam drags him round the waiting area. Liam's laughing. Louis raises his voice so that everyone can hear him over Liam's ridiculous laugh. "Let's go to the fucking pub. Go to a club afterwards, whatever. Come on." He's buzzing underneath his skin, endorphins everywhere. He wants to run and jump and scream. He'll settle for getting wasted and dancing and crawling home afterwards. He'll settle for hanging off his friends and having the time of his life. 

He wants it to last forever. 

~*~

He wakes up in Niall's bed, top'n'tailing, Niall's smelly feet right by his nose. He crawls out of bed and stumbles to his own bed via the bathroom. Harry is asleep in the bath. Louis covers him with a towel and calls it aftercare. He doesn't bother asking why Harry is hugging a giant elephant mask to his chest. 

Some things are best left to the eternal mystery of drunkenness. 

~*~

The _Indie Soc Welcomes Freshers!!_ party on Saturday is full of wankers. Louis has been here half an hour, and he's counted so many stupid moustaches and neck beards and checked shirts that he's fairly sure he's got to be seeing at least triple, as there surely can't be this many people actively choosing this as a fashion option. It's a good thing that the drinks are super cheap and the music isn't truly awful, or he'd be regretting his decision to accept one of Harry's hopefully proffered wristbands. He might have been downstairs instead, sneaking into the Union club, which would hopefully be full of people just as drunk as he is, and where there might be a nice boy sans neck beard who might want to kiss him. 

To be honest, he'll scrimp on the nice part if he gets a cheeky snog out of it. 

Up here people are drunk, but they're being serious about it. 

"You should have just renamed it Hipster Soc," he tells Nick, flopping down onto the bench next to him. "Or Hipster Wanker Soc. That might scan better."

"Hello, Louis Tomlinson," Nick says. He sounds happy to see him, but then the table in front of Nick is stacked full of empty glasses. Surely they can't all be Nick's? He'd be dead if he'd drunk all that. Louis wants to congratulate him, but he's too busy being irritated by his existence. 

"What's wrong with putting on music that people actually know, dickhead? There are indie songs that people actually know and like, you know. It isn't actually a crime."

"You're so charming," Nick says, but he does look oddly charmed. Or drunk, one of the two. "You're so charming I don't know what to do with myself. And anyway, we're doing half hour DJ slots. I don't actually control the music."

"You should do," Louis says sulkily, downing the rest of his vodka and Coke. "This is shit."

Nick leans in. "Spoiler: it's all crap. I like Beyonce and A$ap Rocky. This is just an excuse to hang out with my mates."

"Liar," Louis says. "Didn't you say something about a free drink?"

"Thought you'd be too drunk to remember that," Nick says. He makes a big show of rolling his eyes. "Fine. What do you want?"

"Triple vodka and lemonade," Louis says, in satisfaction. "And a shot of tequila."

He makes himself comfortable at Nick's table whilst Nick's gone at the bar. The venue upstairs at the Union is kind of ridiculously small, and randomly has clouds painted on the ceiling. Viewed in daylight it looks like a shabby church hall. There's a bar, though, although it's not quite as well stocked as the main Union bar. It's usually taken over by the various music societies to run alternative evenings to the main club downstairs. Rock Soc had it last night, apparently. Louis had gone to some of their evenings last year, and one night he'd pulled a boy with delicious dark eyes and a lot of eyeliner. He had a vague recollection of sitting on the windowsill in the toilets and the boy drawing it on him. He'd quite liked that. 

Harry is around somewhere, dancing with a girl with long, dirty blonde hair and incredible eyebrows. Zayn and Perrie went downstairs ages ago because the bar up here didn't have Jack Daniels, and they haven't been seen since. Liam, the prat, had begged off because he was taking Sophia out to dinner. Louis was well annoyed. They'd been going out half the summer, surely they could give up each other's company for the sake of bloody fucking fresher's week. She'd only been home three days before she'd turned up again today. According to Liam's meticulous calendar, they were going to be seeing each other virtually every weekend all term anyway. Niall was supposed to be coming later. He'd gone round to Bressie's to eat fajitas, apparently. Louis had stopped listening after that. 

Nick comes back after a while, balancing a tray with two drinks and two shots on it. "They didn't have tequila," he says, nudging the tray onto the table a little gingerly. "I got us Aftershock instead."

"Good enough," Louis says, and knocks back the shot in one. 

"You're terrible," Nick says, and Louis laughs at that, holding his vodka up to clink against Nick's, since Nick never seems to mind too much that Louis is being a brat. 

"Got to do something to protect against the terrible music," Louis says, just as they swap over to the next DJ, who starts off with The Fray's _How To Save A Life_. It's the first song he's liked all evening. 

"Okay," Nick says, gulping back his shot. "I'll agree with you on this one. This is totally shit."

"It's no Beyonce," Louis says. The arse is hanging out of Nick's jeans. Honestly, him and Harry, they spend all of their student loan on stupid, ridiculous things like a hundred checked shirts, and magical gunk that makes their hair look like they've been electrocuted, and yet between the two of them, they don't seem to own a single pair of jeans that isn't held together by good will and duct tape alone. 

"But who is," Nick agrees, and Louis hadn't meant to say something Nick could _agree_ with. That's never his aim. 

They're interrupted by Harry coming over and dropping down onto the bench between them, deliciously drunk and floppy. "I love this song," he says, resting his head on Louis' shoulder. 

"You never do," Nick says. He sounds scandalised. "This is the end of our friendship, Styles."

 _Good_ , Louis thinks. His jealousy of Harry's friendship with Nick and the other third years is something that settles on his skin like a rash. Harry is his best friend, and it's good that everyone knows it. He wraps an arm around Harry's shoulders, just so that Nick knows. He's terribly possessive when he's drunk. He could make a bet that Nick doesn't have Harry's handwriting inked into his skin, though. That's just him. 

"Never," Harry says, bumping his knuckles into Nick's bicep. "Like you could ever not be friends with me, Nicholas."

Louis doesn't growl, that would be ridiculous. He knocks back half of his triple vodka instead. "Come and dance with me, Haz."

Harry agrees easily, obediently clambering to his feet when Louis nudges him up. Louis feels frenetic, and drunk, and like he doesn't know what to do with all of the pent up energy clawing out from underneath his skin. 

~*~

Louis wakes up on Sunday with a hangover the size of Wales, and someone's number scrawled on the inside of his wrist in biro. He washes it off in the shower, vaguely bothered he can't remember who put it there, or when. Last night must have been a night and a half if he's forgetting bits of it. Mostly he remembers bickering with Nick about music, and then dancing on the table to the Britpop half hour. Harry had joined him, though, he remembers that part. He doesn't quite remember getting home, but he does remember singing _Wonderwall_ at the top of his voice in the kitchen with Harry and Niall. Good times. 

He spends the rest of the morning sprawled across the sofa watching _Iron Man_ with Harry, and then with Liam as well, who's miserable after seeing Sophia off on the train after breakfast. He rests his feet in Harry's lap and Liam takes the end of the sofa beyond Harry, one arm behind Harry's head. Niall gets up in time to see the start of _Iron Man 2_ , taking over the arm chair, and Zayn comes home at lunch time, bearing a carrier bag with a huge bag of oven chips and a bottle of ketchup in. They send him right back out again to go to the corner shop for more food, and Liam reluctantly goes with him, because he's the only one of them apart from Zayn who's actually bothered getting dressed. 

They come back with frozen pizzas, and packets of crisps and cans of Coke and bags of penny sweets, and they devour the lot like a bunch of gannets, _Iron Man 2_ turning into _Avengers Assemble_ , turning into _Iron Man 3_ before they round off the night with _Captain America_. 

It's the best day Louis has had in months, and it's not just because he could quite happily get hard for either Iron Man or Steve Rogers. 

It's just: this year is going to be the best fucking year ever, that's all. He has the best fucking mates in the world.

~*~

Lectures start in the morning, and Louis knows from the moment he stumbles into the lecture theatre and sees the course schedule up on the big screen that he's made a bad module choice. He finds Eleanor half way up on the left hand side, and she's left a seat for him, hugging him hello as he drops down next to her. He steals a gulp of her takeaway tea. They'd lived opposite each other in halls last year, and she hadn't killed him for being annoyingly loud, so he's counting that as a good sign. 

"Hi, babe," he says. "How's things?" The lecturer is already handing around module handbooks and they look far, far too large for his liking. Last year had been a bit of a laugh, with none of their first year marks really counting for anything, but second year was different, and it was just Louis' luck that the English modules for the first semester of this year had all looked terrible. He'd picked the two that looked like he might have a vague chance of passing them, and it was just his luck that Zayn had picked the other two options instead. Still, it meant that Zayn was going to be stuck with learning Old English and faffing about with Chaucer until after Christmas. 

When the course handbook arrives on the desk in front of him, Louis isn't sure his semester is going to be any easier than Zayn's. He gingerly takes a look at the reading list. Samuel Becket's _Endgame_ , T.S. Eliot's _The Wasteland_ —fuck, he's going to fail this whole module. His second module has to be better or he's going to plough the whole semester. He doesn't bother looking at the rest of the list.

"Don't look so scared," Eleanor says, bumping her elbow into his. "We can totally do this."

"Pinky swear?" Louis asks, crooking his little finger. 

She tucks her finger into his. "Pinky swear. What are you doing after this? Do you want to come to the book shop with me and get all of these? We can try the second hand one first. You can come back to mine after, if you want. I'll make you lunch."

"You're going to be my new best friend," Louis declares as the lecturer shushes them all down and opens the first course handbook. 

After the lecture's over, he drops a small fortune on books he's never going to get around to reading, and then spends the rest of his lunchtime on Eleanor's sofa watching _Neighbours_ and _Home and Away_ with her and her flatmates. Eleanor and Jess get into a heated debate over where they'd rather live, Summer Bay or Ramsay Street, and Louis ends up backing Eleanor, because in Summer Bay there's always the risk of forest fires, or floods, or both at the same time, and Louis rather prefers the idea of a pool in the back garden instead. He ends up spending the whole afternoon there, hanging out in her back garden, enjoying the last of the sunshine, shivering in jumpers and pretending that the sun is warm enough to justify this amount of time outside. 

He gets back to his to find Zayn and Perrie getting off on the sofa. He sits on them both, engineering his way into both of their laps, and wraps an arm around both their shoulders. "Doesn't anyone want to love me?" he asks, pouting. 

"Get off, dickhead," Zayn says, but he only shoves Louis gently, so Louis stays where he is. 

"Perrie loves me," Louis says, presenting his cheek for a kiss, and Perrie kisses him dutifully. 

"I do," she agrees, "but my love only extends so far, love, so if you don't get off us now, I'm going to pull your legs off."

"Promises, promises," Louis says, but he rolls off them anyway, sprawling all over the other end of the sofa.

"How come you move for Pezza, but not for me?" Zayn asks, reaching over and bumping his fist into Louis' ankle. 

"Because Perrie is the secret love of my life," Louis says, stealing some of the Doritos from the bag on the coffee table. "I've got something to tell you both. I'm straight, I'm sorry. All last year I was living a lie, and this year I just want Perrie to love me back."

"Finally," Perrie says, clapping her hands over her heart. "This is what I've been waiting for all this time. Zayn, you were just my decoy boyfriend. I'm sorry, you're nothing in comparison to Louis."

"Told you," Louis says. "Do you two want tea?"

"Always," Zayn says, and Louis grins, heading for the kitchen. His friends are the best friends in the world. 

When he gets back, Zayn and Perrie are disappearing, giggling, up the stairs to Zayn's bedroom. Louis drinks three cups of tea and turns the volume up on the telly so that he doesn't have to hear them getting down and dirty upstairs. He bangs on Zayn's door every time he goes upstairs to use the loo, but that's only to be expected, surely. He's the best friend ever, he is. 

He's bored, though. Just a little bit, but still. Bored.

~*~

They hold Niall's Unofficial Un-Birthday Party on the Friday at the end of the first week of lectures, and it's total fucking carnage. Louis mixes the most lethal combination of alcohol he can manage, and serves shot glass after shot glass of it to all the newcomers as soon as they come through the front door, which he's decorated to look like a troll bridge. He often matches the newcomers, shot for shot, and by the time Nick arrives later on, his flatmates in tow, Louis is wasted. 

"Hello, Louis," Aimee says, taking a shot as soon as she's through the door. "What's in this shit?"

"Booze," Louis says, and he only slurs a little bit. "Special recipe."

"Well done," Aimee says, patting his cheek on the way past. Louis tries not to learn the names of all of Nick's awful hipster friends on principle, but Aimee is difficult to ignore. He pretends they all have to do two shots to gain entrance, but he makes Nick do three, just because. 

Nick sits down on the stairs next to Louis. "Hi," he says. 

"Hi," Louis says. "Were you invited?"

"Yep," Nick says, and he reaches past Louis for the bowl of bright green alcohol that Louis had spent the afternoon concocting. Niall had tried to help, but Louis had maintained that Niall's chemistry course would give him an unfair advantage, and had banished him to the kitchen to help Harry and Liam make chocolate cornflake crispies instead. "When's your one of these, again?"

"My un-birthday party?" Louis takes the shot Nick's offering him, and knocks it back, after touching his plastic neon shot glass to Nick's. "Reading week. End of reading week. It's going to be fucking magnificent."

"I can imagine," Nick says. "You going to invite me to that, then?"

"No," Louis says. "No hipsters allowed."

Nick rolls his eyes, but he's laughing. "You're such a dickhead."

"You're a wanker," Louis says. "Shouldn't you be off complaining about our music and comparing moustaches?"

"I don't have a moustache."

"You should do," Louis declares, and he pours out another shot for one of Niall's rugby friends, who's just arrived. Bressie is still deliciously hot. Louis still occasionally likes to imagine being pinned to the bed by him, not that he ever admits that out loud. "Isn't that a rule?"

"I don't know what you think about me and my friends, but it's all bollocks."

"Whatever," Louis says. He's almost out of troll bridge shot mixture. He pours the last bit out for him and Nick. "Me and Harry made a dance up to _I Knew You Were Trouble_. It's fucking awesome. You probably won't like it because it's not sung by wanky hipsters."

"I love Taylor Swift," Nick says. 

"Liar." Louis stumbles to his feet. "I might change my mind about inviting you to my birthday party. If you're not awful."

"Thanks," Nick says, and Louis feels curiously odd inside. He needs another fucking drink. 

The party just gets better. Niall has a birthday cake that's a massive mountain of chocolate crispy cakes with ill-gotten mini eggs mixed on in. Louis wants to know if you can set fire to them, like Christmas pudding, and he and Harry pour brandy all over the stack of cakes in preparation for the greatest science experiment ever. Zayn makes them take it outside in case they set fire to the place, because Zayn is too sensible for his own good. 

It's a disaster. A beautiful, magnificent disaster. Louis wears that success like a crown for the rest of the night, even as he and Harry are teaching everyone their Taylor dance.

He wakes up in the morning in Liam's bed, with his face pressed up into Liam's armpit, Niall sprawled across the bottom of the bed with his feet in Louis' face. Again.

Even with Niall's sweaty feet in his face, the hangover is completely worth it.

So, so worth it.

~*~

"Liam," Louis whines, coming into Liam's bedroom a couple of weeks later and flopping down onto his bed. "Liam, why won't you come to the pub with me?"

Liam has papers spread over his bed, and all over his floor. He's carefully highlighting great big passages of text in yellow. Most of the pages are already ninety-five per cent yellow. Louis doesn't bother pointing out the futility of colouring in every line. 

"Come to the pub," Louis says. "Come on."

"I can't," Liam says. "I've got this stupid essay to write and tonight is my sound tech course."

"Nurgh," Louis says, flopping about like a fish. He's got an essay to write too, and a seminar tomorrow on _The_ fucking _Waste Land_. He doesn't understand any of it, and none of it makes sense, and he's clearly a fucking idiot because everyone else gets it apart from him. "Skip it and come to the pub."

"No," Liam says. "I really like this course. I don't want to fall behind." He's started doing a sound tech course at the local college, one evening per week. Louis resents the interference in his pub schedule. Thursdays had always belonged to him and Liam last year, but now Liam always has to do his sound tech homework on Thursdays, and then he doesn't finish at college until late. 

"You're such a loser," Louis says, bumping his foot into Liam's thigh. "Skip it and come to the pub."

"No," Liam says again, and he doesn't sound quite so forgiving of Louis being a giant dickhead as normal. "I've got to finish this before tonight."

"Come on," Louis whines. "Stop being such a knob. You're no fun anymore."

"Yeah, well," Liam says, pushing Louis' foot out of the way. "Maybe I never was. Look, will you just leave me alone for a bit? I really have got to do this."

Louis goes back to his bedroom and stares at his copy of T.S. Eliot for a while, before giving it up as a bad deal and going to the pub by himself. At least without a wingman he's got a better chance of getting a cheeky snog from some pissed-up student with low morals and even lower standards. 

He doesn't miss Liam at all. He can do this by himself. 

~*~

Louis goes to play footie in the park with Liam and Niall on Sunday morning, just a stupid kickabout with jumpers for goal posts. Zayn watches from the bench by the side of the pitch, although 'watches' might be a little too enthusiastic considering he spends ninety-seven per cent of his time checking his phone. Fuck knows where Harry is, since he hadn't come home last night. 

Louis is pissed off. It isn't like they had plans this morning or anything. He's tried texting, but Harry hasn't texted back. Niall is hungover, and Liam keeps getting right in Louis' face, taking great delight in being better at tackling than Louis, and normally Louis can take it, but this morning he isn't in the mood. 

"Going to take it from me, are you?" Liam says, passing the ball from foot to foot and not letting Louis anywhere near it. Louis tries to get it off him, but clearly all of his footballing skills are missing presumed dead today, because they're nowhere to be found. "Ha, Tommo, today it's all about the Payno."

"Fuck off," Louis says, trying to kick Liam in the ankle. His foot connects with a painful sounding sort of crack, but Liam doesn't look furious, more like he thought it was an accident, and that just infuriates Louis even more. 

"Four hours sleep and I'm still beating you," Liam says, hopping out of Louis' way, ball still attached to his foot like it's been fucking glued to him. 

"Only losers do essays on Saturday fucking night, Liam," Louis says, trying fruitlessly to get the ball off Liam. Niall's doing a handstand in between the jumper goal posts, his hoodie and t-shirt falling down to reveal his bare stomach, and his heart clearly isn't in it either. 

"Oi," Liam says, and Louis isn't stupid, he knows what Liam looks like when he's had his feelings hurt. Louis hates that look. He takes the opportunity to dart past him to get the ball, and shoot it right at Niall in goal. Niall ends up in a heap on the floor, but he's clutching the ball to his chest and laughing. 

"What a fucking save," Niall says, and Louis' had it with footie for now. 

"Let's just go down the pub," Louis says, reaching for the ball from where Niall's holding it out for him. "I could murder a burger."

"I'm broke," Liam says, as they start to gather up their stuff to go over to where Zayn's still industrially playing Candy Crush or whatever he's doing that isn't playing footie with the rest of them. 

"How can you be broke?" Louis asks. "It's what, week four? Your loan's got to last you 'til fucking January."

"I've still got money," Liam says, going a bit red. "But I've got a budget. I can't just spend whatever I want to. I've got food at home."

"For fuck's sake," Louis says, and he's not sure if he's ready to hit something because Liam is being such a terrible stick in the mud, or because he's just spotted Harry coming over the crest of the hill with Nick fucking Grimshaw. 

"I thought we were playing football?" Harry asks, slinging an arm around Liam's shoulders as he gets to the bottom of the hill. 

"You're too late," Louis says, pulling on his hoodie. 

"Only a little bit," Harry says. 

"Blame me," Nick says. "Have you seen my hair today? It won't do what it's supposed to, it's like I've got a hedgehog on my head. A rubbish hedgehog, though, that won't do what I want it to."

"Not much different to normal, then," Louis says. He doesn't mean to snap, but they'd had _plans_. Two on two, and Zayn refereeing. This morning had gone differently in his head. Zayn had been less interested in Candy Crush Saga and more interested in football, for a start. "Are you coming to the pub, or what? Liam doesn't want to."

"It's not that I don't want to," Liam says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He's gone red. "I've got this stupid work to do for sound tech, and this essay to finish, anyway. And I said I'd Skype Sophia this afternoon."

"And you're broke," Louis says. "I know, you said. No time for us. Zayn, you're coming, right?"

"For a bit," Zayn says, looking up from his phone. "Seeing Pezza later, we're going to the cinema."

Louis' chest is starting to feel tight, and he doesn't quite know why. He got out of bed the wrong side, probably. "Niall?"

"You bet," Niall says, wrapping an arm around Louis' waist. "If we go to The Granary, Eoghan's probably working. Or if he isn't, Laura will be. Can probably get us ten per cent off the burgers."

"The Granary's full of the fucking rugby team," Louis says. "Bet you they won't be showing the footie this afternoon."

"Ten per cent, though," Harry says. 

Like Harry's bank balance is going to be bothered by an extra ten per cent on a burger. Harry's loaded, at least compared to Louis. "What's wrong with going down The White Hart, like normal?" Louis persists. He doesn't know why he's being such a dick today, but everyone's annoying him. Last year they'd spent all their time in The White Hart. It had been right round the corner from their hall, so they'd tumbled in and out of there on an almost daily basis. Louis had snogged a bartender there once. 

"Their chips are crap," Zayn says. "And the bus stop for the cinema's fucking miles from there. Let's go down The Granary."

"The burgers are pretty good," Harry says, almost apologetically. 

"You don't get an opinion, you missed football," Louis says. He knows he's lost, and he doesn't know why he's so bothered; it's not like The White Hart is the best pub in the world or anything, he'd just sort of got used to it last year. They had a normal table they'd sit at. Stuff was familiar there, like the graffiti in the loos and sticky, laminated menus on each of the tables. 

"I quite like The White Hart," Nick says. "I played darts there once. I was proper good at it and everything."

Louis sighs. "Right, we're going to The Granary. Everyone except Liam."

"Louis—"

"Shut it, Liam." 

"I've got work to do," Liam says, a little lamely, like Louis hasn't got tutorials and essays to prepare for, and deadlines coming up. It's fucking uni, and everyone knows the focus shouldn't be work. "But maybe I could come for a drink."

"Brilliant," Louis says. He doesn't feel brilliant. 

"Stop being such a dick," Zayn rolls his eyes. "We're all coming, aren't we?"

"Even me," Nick pipes up. 

Louis hopes his death glare says _shut up, Nick_ as loudly as he's thinking it. "You don't all have to come if it's just because I'm dragging you," he says. "I can go by myself."

"No," Liam says, plastering on a smile. "I want to."

Louis knows he doesn't want to. He knows he's just badgered Liam to come along, but he doesn't understand why it can't be like last year, when it hadn't needed a second's persuasion to spend the whole fucking day in the pub. Now he can't get anyone to come along, even though it's a _Sunday_ , and Sundays were invented for hanging out in the pub all day. He grabs his football and tucks it under his arm. "Come on, then," he says. He doesn't know why he's so bad tempered. He's got what he wanted, footie and then the pub, but it doesn't feel like the nice kind of victory he'd expected. It feels sort of tainted and forced. 

He trails down the path after the others, towards the pub. 

The Granary is full of students already, but Niall pushes through the already-full tables to stand by one in the corner where the current inhabitants are starting to look like they might want to leave. Anyone else would succeed in making the incumbents at least grumpy, but Niall's superpower appears to be making even people who are being ousted from their pub table like him. 

They take over the table the moment it's free, Louis dumping the football under the seat and reaching for the menu. He doesn't know why he's looking, as he's going to have the burger with bacon and cheese, and chips and onion rings on the side, and a fucking pint. 

He might have a pint now and a pint with his burger, and then a pint afterwards, for good measure. 

"You finished with that?" Nick asks, holding his hand out for the menu. 

"Nope," Louis lies, and pretends to be studying the shepherd's pie. God, he has no idea why he's being such a dickhead. Liam isn't even looking at the menu, even though he's probably as ravenous as the rest of them. Niall is leaning over them to talk to his friend Eoghan, who's collecting glasses. He's trying to engineer a discount. Harry is texting on his phone, and Zayn is talking to some guy two tables over who Louis vaguely remembers from one of their English tutorials last year. "God," he says, kicking Liam under the table. "I'll buy you lunch. Tell me what you want."

"I can't—" Liam says. 

"You can," Louis says, because he feels shitty and doesn't really know why. "If you don't tell me what you want I'm getting you the veggie burger."

"I hate veggie burgers."

"Exactly," Louis says, and he sticks his tongue out at Nick before shoving the menu in Liam's direction. 

"Take it that means you're not buying me lunch, then," Nick says. 

"Got it in one," Louis says. He relents, if only because he sees Harry's eyebrow twitch. "I'm going up for a pint, though. Do you want one? You got me that drink in Fresher's week."

Nick makes a face. "Fine," he says, and then he gets a tenner out of his back pocket anyway. "Will you order me a burger as well, whilst you're up there? Bacon and cheese, and get me some onion rings and chips on the side as well, whilst you're at it. Might as well go all out, right? Push that boat out."

Louis narrows his eyes. "That's what I'm getting," he says. 

"We can be food twins," Nick says, lightly. He shoves the tenner in Louis' direction. "Go on, there's a love."

"I'm not your love," Louis says, and he kicks Liam under the table again. "You know what you want yet?"

"Plain burger and chips," he says. 

Louis raises an eyebrow. "It's on me," he says, because he's rich and that's all he has to say on the matter. His student loan is a glorious gift. He's probably never going to earn enough to pay it back, anyway. Whatever. "What extras do you want?"

"None," Liam says. 

"So," Louis says, reaching for the menu, "that's extra gherkins and blue cheese, then. With olives to start."

"Blergh," Liam says, which is approximately if not quite a word. "Fine. Same as you," he says, although he doesn't look that happy about it. 

"Marvellous," Louis says. "That's three of us for the Louis special. Anyone else?"

"I'm paying by card," Harry says. He hasn't even looked at the menu yet. He's still on his phone. 

Niall has clambered over the edge of the bench to follow Eoghan round the bar, and Zayn isn't back from talking to his friend yet. Louis shrugs his shoulders and goes up to the bar. He orders his food, three pints, and six shots to get them in the mood. He puts it all on his debit card because, fuck it, this is what the Student Welfare department is for. He'd ended up making two applications to the university's hardship fund in first year, the first to pay his stupid accommodation costs when his loan hadn't come in, and the second because he'd fucked up and ended up with three weeks left of term and no fucking money with which to eat. 

He comes back to the table with all the shots on a tray, and displays it proudly as he sits back down again. 

"What the fuck is that?" Zayn asks, sitting down opposite him. 

"I have no idea," Louis says. "Goldschläger, perhaps. It's whatever's on special offer. I didn't bother asking what it was. Dig in." 

"I'm going to the cinema," Zayn complains. "I can't be wasted at the cinema, Perrie will dump me, for a start."

"Shut up," Louis says, and pokes the shot glass towards him. "Like you haven't been wasted in front of Perrie a million times. Drink up." Nick takes his without complaining, but Liam is clearly unwilling to participate. 

"I've got an essay to do," he says. 

"Jog home then," Louis says, unrepentantly. "That'll get rid of it. Haz? Niall, here's one for you."

Niall and Harry are enthusiastic, at least. Louis ignores Zayn and Liam, and counts them all in. 

They down them all at the same time, Nick making an odd sort of choking sound next to him. Louis shakes his head to get rid of the taste. He isn't entirely sure how it got to the point where alcohol didn't make things better, but there's an odd kind of twist to his stomach that he can't quite manage to make go away. 

The burgers are perfect. They're about ten times better than the same option at The White Hart. Louis hates that. He hates that Zayn keeps checking his watch, and that Liam's attention is clearly already half on his essay and his uni work at home. Niall keeps darting off to talk to Eoghan, or his other friends from the rugby team, who've not un-adopted Niall even though Niall has no particular wish to be pushed around on the rugby field in the rain. Nick and Harry keep stopping to look at stuff on Harry's phone, comparing Twitter feeds and weird articles they've been reading. 

Louis shouldn't feel left out, sitting in the pub on a Sunday lunchtime with his best friends in the world—and Nick, but Nick is like the fucking leech that won't go the fuck away—but for the first time, Louis doesn't have anything to say, or anyone to say it to even if he did. 

He goes to the bar for another pint after a while, and chases it with a raspberry vodka shot at the bar whilst he's waiting for his card to go through. 

This isn't how he imagined today going. 

~*~

He gets home from lectures on Tuesday afternoon to find Zayn on his way out to Perrie's with his rucksack, and the rest of the house in silence. 

"Where is everyone?" he asks, dumping his bag down on the stairs. His tutorial homework is in there; it's the lowest mark he's ever got. His tutor had also written a whole paragraph telling him he had no idea how to use semi-colons. That, at least, was one part of English Louis had thought he'd understood. He's even crap at those bits. 

Zayn's doing his shoelaces up. "Harry and Niall have gone to the cinema, and Liam's gone to town."

"Oh," Louis says, and it's weird, because it's not like Harry and Niall going to the cinema together is a new thing. They've always done it, just wandered off to see whatever's on, on free afternoons when they're bored of hanging round the house. They'd done it in halls too, so it's not like it hasn't happened before. But Louis hasn't felt like _this_ before, like they're going without him, like there's a thing that his best friends are doing that doesn't have a space for him. "Fine. Are you back later?" They'd all talked last night about watching a DVD and eating endless frozen pizzas. Louis had spent this morning's lectures drawing little slices of pepperoni pizza in the margin of his refill pad. 

"Nah," Zayn says. "Staying at Perrie's, aren't I?"

"Right," Louis says. He feels a little bit like he's just taken a sideways step in his own life, just slotting out of his own personal Facebook timeline, and now he's just watching everyone else's slide by without him in it. It's so, so fucking weird. "What about the others?"

"Dunno," Zayn says, and he grins, grabbing his jacket from the hook behind Louis' head. "See you, mate."

"See you," Louis echoes, and he waits until the door's closed before he wanders towards his bedroom. He leaves the door open and puts the volume on his laptop on high, wanking off to terrible xhamster porn just because he can. 

His chest feels tight and he doesn't know what to do to make it go away. 

~*~

The odd feeling inside of him doesn't go away. He can't keep up with his English tutorials. Poetry has always been a black hole for him at the best of times, but _The Waste Land_ is another universe entirely. It makes precisely no sense, and there isn't a space in any of his tutorials for him to ask questions, anyway. It's like the other nine people in his group are speaking a different language when they talk about T.S. Eliot, like they've all shifted up a gear and gone up a level when Louis wasn't looking. He can't even ask Eleanor, because she's got a different tutorial group to him, and anyway, he doesn't like owning up to the fact that clearly he's a complete thicko, and it's just taken him almost twenty one years to realise it. 

At home, it's just the same. Everyone's busy and doing essays and going to lectures—and skipping lectures too, because they're not Louis' friends for nothing—but Louis keeps feeling like he's on the outside, looking in. Niall is roped in to actually participating in rugby practices, even though he's still got no particular desire to play, and he comes home on Wednesday nights with mud everywhere, and bruises, and smelling like wet dog. Zayn and Perrie are all over each other, and apparently Perrie's bed is a double, unlike Zayn's at the house, so obviously they're spending most of their time there. Zayn rolls up to shower and change his clothes and grab his books, but he's barely around. Liam spends all of his time studying, or doing work for his sound tech course, and when he's not doing that, he's earnestly Skyping Sophia, or on the phone to her, or going for runs because he's read that it's an aid to learning. 

And Harry, who Louis would—before this term—have called his best fucking friend in the whole wide world, is just fucking absent. He knows everyone, and if there's someone he doesn't know, then he knows someone who knows a way in. He goes to house parties and goes off to meet people in pubs, and ends up telling Louis about practicing his French at three AM on the bridge by the river with six girls doing combined French and German honours. If he's not doing that, then he's off with Nick, and Louis only knows this because on the few occasions that their paths _do_ cross, he gets invited along. 

He's too much of a knobhead to say no, so he gets to spend the afternoon in the Victoria pub, which is always full of hipster dickheads with too much time on their hands, who spend hours standing at the jukebox, arguing over which obscure artist that no one with any sense had ever heard of deserves to be picked first with their thirty pence selection choice. He sits with Nick and Harry and Nick's flatmates and Nick's friends, and this idiot whose name Louis can't be bothered to try and remember, who suggests that they should start a football team to participate in the Victoria's league. It's the stupidest idea that Louis' ever heard, because it doesn't look like any of them like football, and he makes an educated guess that barely any of them could even name the Liverpool manager, or the Arsenal manager, or any of the repeatedly capped players for England. The blazing stupidity of a bunch of ridiculous hipsters playing football because they reckon they can make it _ironic_ sits heavy on Louis' chest like a physical fucking weight. Even Harry seems to be getting enthusiastic about it, which is ridiculous, since Harry has the co-ordination of a clumsy newborn giraffe, and because he's missed every single arranged footie kickabout that Louis has put together since the start of term. 

Nick leans over and elbows Louis in the side. "You up for it?" he asks, leaving his elbow bumping up against Louis' ribs. "Harry says you're well good. You could be our ringer."

Louis sniffs. He's a curious mixture of not drunk enough and way too drunk to be putting up with this. "Nah," he says, scratching his fingernail along the edge of the table. "Don't think I know how to make footie ironic."

Nick rolls his eyes; he does that at Louis a lot, but Louis can't help but notice that this time Nick doesn't try to talk to him much afterwards. 

That sits heavy on his chest, too. He doesn't even _like_ Nick, so he doesn't get why Nick not paying him any attention is making him feel like this. But it's not in Louis' nature to make his excuses and leave, so he ends up staying until the bitter end, drinking pints of Carlsberg and trying not to sneer too often and too obviously at Harry's new friends. There's a whole conversation about fake, black-rimmed glasses at one point, and Louis tries not to tell them to shut the fuck up, because he's got glasses at home in his glasses case, and they're fucking expensive, and he hates not being able to afford new ones now that he has a scratch on one of the lenses. 

He stays until the end, until most of them have gone, and it's just Nick and Harry and Aimee and Nick's other friend Gillian at the table. They call last orders at the bar, and Louis makes it up in time to order another beer, but when he gets back to the table, Gillian's already gone, and Aimee is putting on her coat. 

"We'll have to get going if we don't want to sit separately," she's saying, as Louis sits down with his drink. 

"Where are we going?" Louis asks, before he can help himself. 

Nick and Harry exchange a glance. Louis steels himself, and when had that been a thing that he did, and with _Harry?_ He raises an eyebrow. 

"I didn't think you wanted to come," Harry says. "I did ask you if you wanted a ticket."

Louis vaguely remembers a conversation about something, the day before. Tickets. Late night, something. Blah blah. "Right," he says. 

"There might be some left," Harry says, apologetically. "You could come with us."

"Their Twitter says they've sold out," Aimee says, looking down at her phone. "Look, _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ , sold out."

Louis nods, and wraps his hand a little tighter around his beer. "You don't strike me as an Indiana Jones fan," he says to Nick. 

Nick shrugs. "I am, however, a hot, younger Harrison Ford fan."

"Do you want us to stay whilst you finish your drink?" Harry asks. To his credit, he looks vaguely uncomfortable. 

"Nah," Louis lies. "This girl from my course is having a party. I was going to go anyway, so I'll just finish this and then go. Off you go."

It's a lie. It's always a lie; he never has anything he has to do, or anywhere he has to go. He keeps thinking about the way Nick stopped talking to him earlier in the evening, and he hates it, because Louis is better than this. He's better at not wanting to be something he's not, he's better at being happy being who he is. It's just so terribly difficult at the moment. It's all so fucking hard. 

He stumbles home by himself at midnight, drunk, and confusingly, terribly close to tears. 

~*~

Reading Week rolls around with happy inevitability. Louis has his last lecture and his last tutorial group, and after lunch with Eleanor and her flatmate, Jess, he wanders home half way through the afternoon to faceplant on his bed and not think about uni work for a glorious, delicious ten day stretch. He's so tired. Everything's hard. At least he has his Un-Birthday Project Party coming up; they'd talked about it at the beginning of term and decided on the Friday in Reading Week. A fucking good party is exactly what he needs; a blow out, all of his friends in one place at the same time, music and booze and cake and candles and not enough sleep. 

~*~

Louis spends the day of his un-birthday methodically drinking shots in the comfort of his own bedroom, watching _Star Wars,_ episodes four, five, and six, and playing games on his phone. Sophia is up for a long weekend, and she and Liam have gone out for the day. Harry is at home with his family, Zayn is in the library, and Niall's gone on a day trip to the seaside with Bressie and the others, and not one of them has remembered that today is supposed to be the unofficial celebration of Louis' birth. 

Not one of them. 

He throws up mid-afternoon, vomiting up tequila so that his throat burns and his head hurts and he sits on the floor in the bathroom and cries. He cries and he throws up again and he ends up passing out in his bedroom at six in the evening, too drunk to stand up. 

It's not the way he envisaged getting to this point today.

~*~

"We're going for breakfast," Liam says, knocking on Louis' door the following morning. 

Louis stares up at the ceiling, at the glow-stars he'd stuck there the day after arriving. "Fuck off," he says, because his hangover is the size of Birmingham, and his head hurts, and he's so fucking tired he doesn't know what to do with himself. 

"Fine," Liam snaps, and Louis pulls the covers up and over his head, and wonders when it was that his friends moved on without him. 

~*~

Louis hides upstairs in the library with his English essay scrunched up in his rucksack. It's his lowest mark yet, and he'd _tried_. He'd tried. 

He has no idea how to do better, and for the first time since he'd come to uni, he's got no one to tell, and no one to phone up and arrange to go to the pub with. 

He doesn't know what to do to make it better. He doesn't know what to do at all. 

He wants his friends back, and he doesn't even remember losing them. 

~*~

"What are we up to tonight?" Louis asks, wandering into the kitchen the following Friday lunchtime. He's had to steel himself to walk in, plastering on a smile and trying not to look like he's awkward and unsure around his best friends. He feels oddly unsettled, anxiety sitting deep in his belly. It's been like this for days. "Union's doing a cheese-fest? We could go to that." He doesn't really expect anyone to say yes. He's stopped expecting anyone to say yes. He doesn't really know why or how it's happened, or when it was that they started to forget him the way that they have, but it's a persistent ache in his chest that he really doesn't know what to do with. Even Niall had snapped at him yesterday, for using up all the hot water before he'd managed to get in the shower, and Niall never snaps at anyone. 

Harry and Liam exchange glances. Louis' chest feels tight already, although that feeling's there when he wakes up and when he goes to sleep, so this is hardly any different. 

"What?" he asks. 

"Well," Harry says, almost apologetically, "there's a party. At Nick's."

"Right," Louis says. "Okay."

"Didn't you get a Facebook invite?"

"Probably," Louis says. He'd turned off his Facebook notifications during reading week, when he'd gone to read his timeline and seen nine million pictures of his housemates and best friends having a hundred different kinds of fun without even inviting him. There's a drunken sort of masochistic pain in refreshing his feed, but he hasn't been drunk in a couple of days, and that last one had been a big one, so he's not entirely sure he could be trusted to remember an invite to a party. He fumbles awkwardly with the kettle, and tries to put it on to boil. "Is that what everyone's doing, then?"

"Yeah," Liam says. 

"I'm sure Nick invited you," Harry says. "He wouldn't not invite you."

"Right," Louis says, because there's no reason for Nick to invite Louis anywhere, since all they ever do is bicker and snap at each other. Louis can't even get his best friends to want him around, so he's definitely not going to be able to get Nick to. "Okay."

"You are going to come, aren't you?" Harry asks, sort of carefully. Louis is really fucking sick of people being careful with him. 

"Might do," Louis says. "Got a few other options tonight. Might drop by later." He'll go and get frontloaded at a pub first. There's no way he's turning up at Nick's without being at least a little bit wasted. The kettle finishes boiling but his hand shakes as he pours out water onto his tea bag. He puts it back down and goes for a beer from the fridge instead. 

"That's Zayn's," Liam says. 

"So what," Louis says. "I'll pay him back. It's only a beer, god."

"Louis."

"It's just a beer," Louis says. "He wouldn't say I couldn't have a beer."

"How many has he got left?" Liam asks doggedly. 

"Fine," Louis snaps, and he puts the open can back in the fridge. "There. Happy?"

"Lou—"

Louis shakes his head. His hands are trembling. There's vodka in his bedroom, under his bed. "Whatever."

"Louis," Harry says. "Are you going to come with us to Nick's?"

"I'll see you there, maybe," Louis says, heading down the hall to his bedroom, but his eyes are stinging and his chest hurts. He's so tired. He can't remember the last time he woke up and didn't feel as tired as he did before he went to sleep. "I've got other things to do, you know."

He doesn't listen to Harry's response, closing the door behind him and leaning his head back against the wall. He's such a fucking failure. 

~*~

Louis can hear Nick's party as soon as he turns into his street. It's raining and he's got his collar turned up against the cold, his hands shoved inside his pockets. He doesn't know why he feels so odd—almost tearful—when he never fucking cries. 

He pushes open the gate to Nick's front yard, talking and music and light seeping out through the curtains and up into the bedrooms, noise everywhere. His stomach feels like it does before an exam, in knots, anxiety sparking across his skin. He ignores the doorbell in favour of pushing the door open. 

"Oi," Aimee says, from where she's sitting on the stairs by the front door, with a couple of girls that Louis doesn't recognise, "some of us knock."

"It's a party," Louis says, which isn't quite the _sorry_ he was meaning. 

"Still not your house," Aimee says, but Louis just salutes her and heads further inside, because being a dickhead is his current tour de force. He spots Zayn and Perrie through the door into the living room as he takes off his coat and dumps it on top of the pile in the hall, the two of them leaning up against the mantelpiece and pressed close together. They don't notice him raise his hand to them in greeting, so he pushes past the snogging couple half in and out of the dining room to go into the kitchen to find himself a drink. He should have brought something, but he didn't, so he's just going to steal what's here instead. He pours himself at least a triple, and knocks back a shot of Goldschläger even as he's searching out a can of Coke to top off his vodka. 

"Are you seriously drinking all of our booze?" Nick asks, from the kitchen doorway. 

"It's a party," Louis says, and just because he can, he drinks Goldschläger straight from the bottle.

"Nice," Nick says. "Please don't tell me you spat in that, I only bought it last week."

"Might have done," Louis says, a little sullenly. "Don't you have Coke? I need something to mix my drink with." He doesn't really, it just tastes a little better if he can take the edge off the vodka with something sweet. 

"Behind you," Nick says, pointing at the fridge. "How are you, anyway? Harry said you didn't get my Facebook invite."

"I've blocked you," Louis lies, taking a Coke from the box on the floor and cracking it open. He pours an inch on top of his vodka and then dumps the can on the side. "And Harry needs to keep his fucking mouth shut for a change." God, Louis' chest feels like it's getting tighter with every breath. It hurts, it hurts so much. These were his friends—his best friends—Niall and Zayn and Harry and Liam, and none of them seem to want him around anymore. He doesn't know what to do without them. 

"What crawled up your arse?" Nick asks. He reaches past Louis for the half-open can of Coke, and tops up his drink with it. "Not that you're normally sunshine and light, but you're a special brand of arsehole tonight."

"It's the only thing I'm good at, being an arsehole," Louis says. "Going to get my degree in it and everything." He knocks back half of his drink. Christ, that burns. "Nah, I'm only a dick around stupid hipster wannabes." 

"You should slow down," Harry says, coming into the kitchen and hooking his chin over Nick's shoulder. Louis would be too short for that. He wants to cry but he can't. He feels like such a failure, and it's even worse this time than it was when he fucked his A levels up the first time, or how he's lost every job he's ever had, because he thought he'd got it right with his boys, and being friends, but it turns out he's wrong about this too, because he hasn't got this right either. He's fucked up his English modules and he's hated everything he's supposed to have studied this term, and worse than that, none of his friends have asked him if he's okay in _weeks_. He doesn't know why his missed un-birthday party had hit him so hard, but every time he thinks about it, he wants to sink through the floor and curl up and cry. 

"What I do is none of your fucking business, Haz," he says, and his throat feels like it's about to close up. He doesn't know why Harry's pretending he cares now; he hasn't looked out for him in weeks and weeks. "What, are you the fucking booze police, now? You're fucking drinking."

"Louis—" Harry says, and he looks upset, and all Louis can feel is a savage sort of satisfaction that Harry is feeling one iota of how awful Louis is. 

"Stop being such a dickhead, Haz," Louis says, and he grabs his drink. God, he needs to get out of here. Coming to this party was the worst idea ever. He pushes past Harry and Nick even as they're both trying to talk after him, but he can't bear to even try and listen. 

Niall is in the dining room with Liam and a pile of Nick's friends. They're playing drinking games with packs of cards and stupid fucking LPs on the actual fucking hipster record player, laughing and sitting on top of one another, someone half in and out of the window into the back garden, doing some kind of dare. 

No one even notices Louis standing in the doorway, and after a minute he turns around and leaves, heading into the living room to see if he can find Zayn and Perrie, but they're not there anymore. Nick is, though, and he gives Louis the kind of glance that Louis has come to dread, his gaze sliding away from Louis like he doesn't matter, like he's not even there. Nick never looks at him like that. Louis hadn't known that it mattered. 

Nick's on the sofa with some of his friends, talking about their new football team. 

"It's going to be great," Nick says, "because I haven't been on a footy pitch since year nine PE."

"Just think how laddy you're going to be now, though," one of the other guys says, tapping his bottle of Corona against Nick's plastic glass. "Proper laddy."

"Proper laddy," Nick echoes, shooting Louis a glance. "But we need a team name. Like, a good one, too. Nothing shit. And we need a football strip."

"Seriously," the other guy says, "only you could be more bothered about the strip colour and our name than who's going to be on our actual team."

Louis hates it. He hates it, because everything is such a fucking joke to Nick and his friends, and he's tired of it. Footy is _great_ , and all Nick can do is turn it into something ridiculous. "Everything's a fucking joke to you," he says, butting into their conversation. "Don't you ever try at anything? And now what, you've got a fucking ironic football team too? Just to be more _laddy_ , like that's even a fucking thing. Do you have any idea how much of an idiot that makes you look? You look stupid."

"That's it," Nick says, and he stands up and grabs Louis' elbow, dragging him out of the living room and into the hall. Louis is pretty wasted, and he knows Nick well enough to recognise that he is, too. 

"Get off me," Louis snaps, trying to tug his arm away from Nick's as Nick shoves him in the direction of the door. At least Aimee and her friend have moved somewhere else. 

"No," Nick looks fierce, and drunk, and pissed off. He shakes Louis' arm. "I'm so fucking sick of your shit, Louis. Where the fuck do you get off?"

"Let go of me," Louis says again, but Nick's grip is tight. "You've got no right." His heart's pounding. He feels sick. 

"I've got all the right," Nick says. "God, you used to be fun to invite round, what with your whole arsehole thing; that used to be funny, but now you're always awful." He loosens his grip on Louis' elbow then, but Louis doesn't move. He can't. "I don't know where you think you get off, going on about how you think everything's a fucking joke to me. Like, you're seriously standing here and having a go at _me_ for not trying, when everyone knows you love football, but you wouldn't even think about joining our team. Whatever, you don't have to be on my team, but you've not even thought about trying out for the football society. You could have got together a five-a-side team at the least. The Union is always fucking going on about their five-a-side league. You could do that standing on your head, but you don't fucking bother."

Louis is actually going to be sick. He has to swallow it down, the taste of bile on his tongue.

"It's not even just football, is it? You love drama, but you never do any of the plays. You could do stuff in the LGBT society, cos they're desperate for people, but you don't even go. You don't try at _anything_ , Louis, and everyone knows it, and you're ruining my fucking party. I used to have Harry going on about you all the time, about how great you were, and all I get from Harry now is how you're doing his head in, and how he's sick of it, and you know what? I get it. I'm sick of it too. You judge me and my friends, like, all the time, and I'm tired of it. So what if you don't like what me and my friends like? I don't care, because we have fun, and we have a good time. We're not hurting anyone. The only person who has a problem with it is _you_ , and I don't need you judging us every second of every day. Don't you ever get tired of it? Being such a huge fucking dickhead all the time? Even your friends are tired of you. You see any of them hanging around right now? No, because they're as sick of you as the rest of us."

"God," Louis manages. "Right." Normally he'd give as good as he got, normally he'd tell Nick what an annoying hipster dickhead he is, but he just can't. He _can't._ There's nothing he hates more than being found out. Just this once he'd wanted it to work out. He tries to nod, but he can't. There's a sob caught in his throat, and he's either going to be sick or cry, and both of them sound like the worst possible things that he could do right now. "I'm just, um—I'll go." He can't manage more than that, because he's going to fucking cry. His eyes feel wet. He doesn't fucking cry and he can feel himself starting, and he hates it, he hates it, he _hates it_. 

He clumsily grabs his jacket from the pile in the hall, and pushes his way out of the front door. 

He's still carrying his drink, and he leaves it on the wall by the gate as he tries desperately to keep from breaking down. He's half way down the road before he breaks into a run, a sob escaping even before he reaches the main road. He's fairly sure he's going to be sick; everything he's drunk tonight is rolling around in his stomach as he crosses the road, darting between the cars. The sound of horns follows him as he slows down, taking the path down the side of the river that leads into the park. 

He can't breathe. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes to stop himself from crying. Because he's a failure, and he knows he's a failure, and he's never fucking succeeded at anything, not really, and this is the biggest failure of them all, because he'd wanted it so much. These friends, this course, this whole experience. He'd wanted it so much. 

He'd wanted it so fucking much. 

He climbs over the fence into the bowling green at the corner of the park, and then out again the other side, until he gets to the tennis courts and he just can't go on anymore. He feels sick and his phone's vibrating against his leg in his pocket. 

He sinks to the floor by the wall of the tennis court, and pulls the back off his phone so that battery falls out, without checking to see who's been ringing him. He puts his head in his hands. 

He still can't fucking breathe.


	2. I Really Fucked It Up This Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to **hermette, turntlou** and **ofjustimagine** for their help with this chapter. You are much appreciated.  <3
> 
> Thank you also to **turntlou** for the brilliant texts graphic. I love it. (For those of you who might be using screenreading software, everything in the images is also in the text, so you won't miss anything). 
> 
> Words of caution: there is a LOT of alcohol in this, an awful lot of hurt feelings, some lashing out, very poor life choices, people saying the wrong thing, distorted thought processes, anxiety, and depression.

Louis can't stay in the park forever. It's been half an hour at least, and it's cold, and he can't stop shaking. The nausea is still there too—an insistent reminder with his every panicked, desperate intake of breath. He can't go home, and he can't go back to the party, and it's not like he can just pop home-home to his mum either. 

He ends up at Eleanor's house, knocking on her door even though it's really late and he must look like a desperate, drunken mess. 

"Hi," he says, when she opens the door in her pyjamas. "Can I stay here?"

She takes one look at him and steps back, away from the door. "Come on," she says, and beckons him past the living room, with its TV blaring and her flatmates chatting, and up the stairs to her bedroom. It's cold upstairs, and her room's a bit of a tip, but nothing compared to his. He sits on her bed with his arms wrapped around his knees, and tries to stop shaking whilst she disappears down to the kitchen. He's so cold.

She makes him a cup of tea and a piece of toast, then sits next to him on the bed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Louis knows that he must be presenting a strange enough picture: he's drunk and tear-stained and breathless and shivering, but more than anything, he's _quiet_. It's like his words have just disappeared, like everything he could possibly want to say has just withered up and died inside of him, trapped in his chest like everything he wants to be is rotten to the core from the inside out. "Can I stay here?" he asks again. 

"I said so, didn't I?" Eleanor says. She bumps her knee into Louis'. She's being so careful around him that he wants to cry all over again. "What happened?"

He shrugs. He just keeps going over and over it in his head, Nick snapping at him, _you're always awful,_ and, _you don't try at anything_ , and, _even your friends are tired of you_. He doesn't know when he ended up being this person, where his friends are sick of him, and can't even seem to remember why they were friends with him in the first place, and have moved the fuck on without him. "You ever fuck stuff up so much that there's no way to unfuck it? Did you ever make people so sick of you that they can't bear to be around you anymore? Because that's what I did." He doesn't know how to put the rest of it into words. "That's what I did."

"Oh, Louis," she says, and she tucks her hand into his. 

He doesn't know what else to say. His throat hurts and his eyes are sore. He eats his toast and drinks his tea, and then the two of them go out onto the back step to have a cigarette. She sticks close to his side, but doesn't push it, which is good, because otherwise he'll have to explain why his hand is shaking. He just doesn't know what to say. 

He's never been the quiet one. 

He ends up in her sleeping bag on her bedroom floor, under an orange fluffy blanket because he can't stop fucking shivering. He doesn't fall asleep for the longest, longest time, and he stares up at the ceiling and tries to do something with the hurt in his chest that's creeping out across his skin like a spider spinning a web. He's trapped in it, this ache, this desperate loneliness that he never, ever wanted, and doesn't know how to deal with. 

It's just—he'd wanted this so much. He'd wanted this more than anything in his whole entire life, and he'd let himself believe that he could have it, and that's the worst part. For once he'd believed he could have it, but it the end it hadn't mattered. He'd still fucked it up. 

He'd fucked it all up. 

He wakes up in the morning with crusty eyes and rolling nausea in his belly. He washes his face in Eleanor's bathroom and creeps back into her bedroom so he doesn't wake her up, but she's sitting up in bed and checking her phone. 

"Morning," he says, and his voice sounds thick and a little croaky, like he's coming down with something. He isn't, not unless being a fuck-up counts as being ill. 

"Hiya," she says. "Did you sleep all right?"

He shrugs a little, unsure how to say that he hadn't been able to turn his brain off. She smiles at him anyway, and pats her bed next to him, and Louis is still Louis, under everything. He crawls into bed with her and wraps his arms around her middle, and rests his chin on his shoulder. He probably smells but he can't help it. He just wants to be touched. He's floating somewhere above the ground, untethered, rootless like his ropes have been cut. He wants to be back on the ground. He wants to feel something again that isn't just desperate hurt. 

"It'll be okay, you know," Eleanor says, but Louis just isn't sure that it will. There's no way that it can be, not really. He doesn't say anything, just burrows closer into her side as she leans over him to put the radio on. 

They get up after a while, Louis still quiet on the outside and going over and over and over it all on the inside. Eleanor offers him free run of the cereal shelf in her kitchen, and normally he'd be all over the selection possibilities, but he can't seem to make a choice. In the end he pours himself a bowl of Coco Pops, and she helps herself to Fruit and Fibre, and then they go back upstairs with giant mugs of tea. 

"So," Eleanor says, as they settle themselves on her bedroom floor, her duvet over their knees. "Do you maybe want to explain what last night was about?"

He shrugs. He doesn't want to talk about it. No; he doesn't think he _can_ talk about it. The words are trapped inside of him, and every time he tries to talk he chokes on it. God, he's so tired. He's been tired for weeks. It's hard to get out of bed in the mornings sometimes. He's never felt like this before. 

"It's all gone wrong," he says, and even that is desperately difficult to say out loud. "I just—I messed everything up, and now they don't want to be friends with me any more."

Eleanor tucks herself into his side. "Who?" she asks. "Harry and the boys?"

He shrugs. "Nick told me some home truths." 

"What? That's probably rubbish, then. What does he know? You and those lads are joined at the hip. You were all last year. I had to, like, yell at you nine million times just to shut up."

"Last year's different to this year, though. Now I can't make any of them spend any time with me." It sounds pitiful even to his ears. 

She bumps her knee into his. "I'm sure that's not true."

"It is, though," he says. "They're all sick of me, and I don't even fucking blame them."

"Maybe things aren't as bad as you think?" 

"No," he says. "They are." He rests his cheek on El's shoulder. "It's all gone wrong, El. It's all gone so fucking wrong."

"Louis—"

"Sometimes you fuck up too badly to fix things," he says, and his chest feels like it's constricting inwards. 

It hurts so fucking bad. 

"Oh, Lou," she says, and he screws his eyes shut to stop from crying again, resting his cheek against her shoulder as she puts her cereal bowl down to pull him into a hug. "It'll be okay."

It won't, though, will it? His friends have moved on, and he's a giant dickhead, and awful to boot, and he can't do this semester at all. There isn't actually a solution to any of that. It's just fucked. 

~*~

Louis lets himself into the house quietly, hoping he can steal into his bedroom without having to see anyone. He'd washed his face at Eleanor's again before he'd left, nicking some of her face wash, but he still looks a mess. No such luck, though; he can hear the telly going in the living room and the radio on in the kitchen. 

The thing is, he's scared, and he's never scared. He plasters a smile onto his face and lets the door slam behind him, just like he always does when everything's fine, and if his hand shakes, then there's no one there to see it.

He's never been scared of facing his friends before. He doesn't know how to deal with it, with the anxiety scratching its way across his skin like a rash. He can hear his housemates in the living room, and they make a big deal of chucking open the door and pouring into the hall. 

He's acted for years; he can do this. "Morning, lads," he says, hoping it's dark enough in the hall with the curtains still drawn that he can get away with them not seeing his face all that clearly. "Just going for a shower."

Liam bars his way down the hall to the stairs. "Where the hell were you last night? Have you any fucking idea how worried we've been?"

Louis does some of his best acting work yet, and concentrates on being nonchalant. "Stayed with a friend," he says. He doesn't add, _didn't think any of you would remember to notice if I wasn't here._ He doesn't add, _I've wanted you to notice me for weeks_. He's so fucking needy, sometimes. He hates it. Hates it. He doesn't add, _I thought you didn't want me around anymore._

"You hate staying at people's houses," Zayn says. He looks knackered. In fact, Harry and Niall and Zayn and Liam all look tired and hungover and furious and worried, and Louis doesn't know which one of those is worst. He has no idea how this happened, how the five of them ended up with this giant divide running through them; Louis on one side with the four of them together on the other. 

Louis shrugs. It's this thing, this weird thing, where he just likes his own bed. It's a secret he doesn't share all that often. He doesn't sleep very well when he stays with other people. 

"Nick made me call you, and then made us go out and look for you when you weren't answering your phone," Harry says. He looks worried. "He kept saying he shouldn't have said what he said. He felt really bad about whatever he'd said to you."

"What did you fight about?" Niall asks, reaching over to touch Louis' arm. "He says you rushed out, and that you were upset. He looked pretty fucked up, too. What did you say to him? Why didn't you have your phone on? We looked for you."

 _He_ looked pretty fucked up, god. "It ran out of charge," Louis lies. "And like I fought with Nick, that's ridiculous, he's a fucking idiot. I just had places to be." None of them look like they believe him. He just has to try harder. "Right-oh, come on, Liam, out of the fucking way. I'm going to have a shower, unless you knobheads have run us out of hot water."

"Aren't you even going to apologise?" Liam demands. 

Louis can't quite face apologising for failing at everything, up to and including being a shit friend, and everything else besides. "Nothing to apologise for, mate," he says, plastering on a smile and pushing past Liam. "Sorry my phone ran out of charge. You didn't need to worry, though. When did I ever have a Friday night where I didn't have somewhere to be?" 

~*~

If he cries his eyes out in the shower, then no one ever needs to know. 

~*~

It doesn't get any better over the next few days. Louis is so tired all of the time, and he's uncomfortable and unsure in his own skin, which he hates. He's quiet and tries to stay out of the way, because he can't think of anything to say, and because he can't stop replaying Nick saying _even your friends are sick of you_ over and over in his head on a loop. Louis has always, always known he could be annoying, but up until now he'd always thought of it as a good thing. A positive, like he's mischievous and fun and the life and soul of the party—the good kind of irritation. 

None of those things apply to him anymore, and he doesn't know why, or how it got to this point, or why it is that he can't seem to remember how to get through the day anymore without having to sneak off somewhere by himself to just remember to keep breathing. It had always seemed so automatic before. 

The lads are awkward with him, and Harry keeps looking worriedly in Louis' direction when he thinks Louis isn't looking. Liam is barely talking to him, and that hurts, because last year Liam had been his partner in crime, his foil, his fellow prankster-in-residence in halls. But now Liam is quiet around him, like a wounded animal, eyes hurt. Louis isn't even entirely sure if it's one single thing that he's done, or if it's just that Louis has been so unspeakably awful that there just isn't anything to say any more. 

It's okay, though, because Louis can't think of anything to say, either. 

_They're sick of you_ plays on a loop in his head. 

But the lads still talk about having house Fifa tournaments and stay-in-Saturdays, the five of them, where they booze together and play Fifa and get pizza delivered, and Louis just doesn't get it. He doesn't get why they're including him _now_ , when they're clearly all so sick of him. Even Niall's yelled at him this week, for eating all of his sausages and not replacing them, and Louis can't remember how he's supposed to respond, so he just replaces the sausages and sits in his room with the stereo on really loud because if the bass line throbs beneath his skin then at least he doesn't have to listen to his best friends living their lives without him. 

The plans for a stay-in-Saturday continue, and for a moment, it feels good, the way they're trying to include him, but Louis isn't a charity case, and he doesn't need their pity plans. Anyway, now that he knows how sick of him they are, he doesn't want to intrude. He pretends he already has plans, and on Saturday he finds a space in the library, top floor, away from the lifts. He hides there with his laptop and his iPod and plays endless miniclip games, until his stomach is crawling with hunger and he turns up on Eleanor's doorstep with a pizza from the rubbish-but-cheap pizza shop on the corner, and they watch a DVD in Eleanor's bedroom with the door closed away from her housemates.

The whole week since Nick's party has been terrible, and he's been going crazy with how much he hates it. He wishes there was an easier way to get friendship-fired than this. And it isn't just his friends, either. He got an essay back that was one point above a fail mark, and okay, he was never going to graduate with a first, but he'd been aiming for a nice, solid, dependable 2:2. At this rate he'snot even going to get a third. 

He pretends. He pretends for the following few days too, in lectures and in tutorials and at home. He pretends in the supermarket and he pretends when he's in the Student Union. He pretends when he sees Nick Grimshaw for the first time since his party, when they're both in Tesco and Nick's dumping tins of chopped tomatoes into his basket on Monday like the apocalypse is about to hit. He pretends when he sees Nick outside the student radio station on Tuesday, and he pretends when he sees Nick in the Union at lunch time the following day. He pretends, and maybe if he tries hard enough at it, maybe he'll just start being okay again. It's a long shot, but he's clinging to it. 

Because otherwise there's just this, and Louis is still having trouble remembering how to breathe. 

He's still pretending when Nick comes over to his table in the Union on Wednesday. Nick has a cautious, quiet look on his face that Louis hasn't seen there before. Louis can't remember being so nervous around someone in a while. 

"Do you fancy coming to the Indie Soc sandwich lunch thing upstairs?" Nick asks, even though there's an empty plate in front of Louis already. He's taking up eating chips and gravy every lunchtime rather than go home. It's a valid life choice. "Fill up a baguette for a quid? All proceeds go to keeping the society in tailored neck beards."

Louis waves his copy of _Endgame_ at Nick. "Got to have this read by two. Got a tutorial on it."

"Are you sure?" Nick asks, sort of quiet. For someone who's totally fucking sick of Louis, he's doing a good job of looking awkward and shy. "It's only just half twelve. You could come up and have a Coke, or whatever."

Louis has half a mug of tea left in front of him. "I'm all right," he says, and for an extrovert, he's taking hiding from people to new and unprecedented levels. He ducks his head. "Thanks, though."

"Louis—about that night—"

Louis shakes his head. "It's fine," he says. "I don't even remember what we talked about. Go on, get upstairs before they send out a search party. You know it'll be dead hard if all those hipsters are relying on old maps to find you. They'll end up in Glasgow or something."

"Nah," Nick says. "It's all iPhones now."

Louis fiddles with the page of his play text. Under the table, his knee is jiggling up and down, and he can't make it stop. "Aimee's over there. Think she's waiting for you."

Nick looks over his shoulder. Aimee's leaning against the doorway, phone in hand. Nick nods at her. "All right," he says, still quiet. "You should think about coming along to the next one, though. Bang up sandwich for a quid."

"Right," Louis nods. He's never going to an Indie Soc sandwich lunch, and definitely not if Nick's going to be there. Nick, who's sick to the back teeth of Louis, just like everyone else. Nick, who Louis had never realised he liked having around, if only to constantly make fun of. 

When Nick leaves, Louis keeps on staring down at the table like if he just looks long enough, and hard enough, it's all going to be okay. 

He doesn't remember what it feels like to not feel like this. He hates it. 

~*~ 

Louis mucks up his _Endgame_ tutorial. He can't answer the question his tutor throws at him, and he hadn't come up with any of the things that everyone else in his tutorial seemed to assume were obvious. He can't even cover it up with something witty, because it's like his brain's gone dead where all the funny stuff used to be. 

There's a text from Harry later on, when Louis is hiding in the corner of the library playing endless Candy Crush Saga and Pet Rescue Saga until his battery or his lives run out, whichever's first. Harry wants to know if Louis will go to the Union with him on Saturday night to this music night that Nick's organised. 

Louis can't face Nick, and he can't face anything that the indie fucking wanker hipster society puts on, and he can't face Harry, so he pretends he's seeing friends. Harry doesn't need to know that there aren't any friends, not really, no one apart from the boys. He scratches his blunt fingernails over the top of his birds tattoo. Five of them; flying free. He digs his nail into the one flying alone, last beside the other four. If he scratches long enough, can he just scratch himself off? Pretend he was never there in the first place. 

He wants to cry. He always wants to cry. 

He gets home to Liam awkwardly hovering outside his bedroom door. "My lecture's been cancelled," Liam says, and Louis can't remember the last time he'd had a proper conversation with Liam. Reading week, maybe. Before that. 

"Hi," Louis says, and his voice sounds a little scratchy and hoarse. Maybe he's coming down with something. Maybe that's why he feels so exhausted and run down and like even having a conversation requires more energy than he has to hand. 

"I haven't seen you in ages," Liam says. "We could go to the pub. I could skip my five o'clock."

Time was, Louis would have killed for his friends to ask him to do shit, but now he doesn't know how to be near them. He keeps remembering, _even your friends are sick of you_ , and _you never try at anything_. 

"My seminar's been rescheduled," Louis says, which is a lie. "I just came home to get my book."

"Oh," Liam says, and he looks vaguely disappointed. 

"Sorry," Louis says. 

"Do you have to go?" Liam asks. 

Louis snorts at that. "You can't think of anything to do with a spare hour?" All of them have had things to do with their spare hours, for weeks. Spare hours without Louis. He feels sharp, like the edge of a knife. "Have a wank, Liam."

Liam goes a bit red. 

"Push that boat out," Louis says, pushing open his bedroom door. He doesn't want to have to go out and pretend he's at a seminar. He wants to hide in his bedroom and climb tiredly into bed and pull the covers up over his head. "Then pull it back in again, I suppose. You know how it goes."

"Right," Liam says, after a moment. "So, I'll, um. I'll see you."

"Yeah," Louis says, and he makes a big deal of rooting out his phone charger and a book so he can go back out and pretend he's in a seminar for another hour. 

He decides to go and knock for Eleanor instead, see if she'll put up with him for a bit. He phones his mum on the way over. Pretending to her that he's all right, and still having the time of his life is harder than the rest of it. He's just so, so tired of pretending. 

The only person he hasn't pretended with is Eleanor, and because of that, he hasn't let himself see her much outside of lectures. Before tonight, just twice since the weekend of Nick's party, the pizza last Saturday night, then Monday, and now tonight. He'd cried on her the second time, after he'd seen Nick Grimshaw stockpiling chopped tomatoes in the supermarket. He'd turned up on her doorstep bearing a frozen pizza, and it had been excruciating. The whole thing had been embarrassing, but even crying over a pepperoni pizza, he couldn't properly admit why he was so upset. Not even knowing that he'd talked to her that night, after Nick's party. He was too ashamed. He'd handed her his English essay instead, the one that was one mark above a fail grade, to justify that particular outburst. 

When he turns up on her doorstep this time, it's almost teatime, and even though Liam must have been leaving for his lecture at some point in the not too distant future, she makes Louis pasta and pesto and lets him hide in her room with the music up so that they don't have to see her flatmates for an hour. 

Louis had always known he'd made the right decision in pestering Eleanor to be his friend last year. 

She waits until they're sitting down with their pasta before she starts bugging him. "I'm worried about you," she says, handing him a bottle of beer and a bottle opener. "You're not yourself."

Louis is exhausted, and so, so alone. "Didn't really like who I was," he says, which is a fucker of a sentence, because what he really means—and can't say—is that other people didn't really like who he was, even though he wanted them to. Even though he really, really wanted them to. 

"Lou—"

"Don't," he says. "I'm crap at English, everything else has gone wrong, and I have no fucking idea who I am anymore. I don't have anything else to say. Can we just, I don't know, watch the telly and not talk about it?"

"You know," she says carefully, "you and me not talking about this isn't me being a good friend. I know it's hard, but, like, maybe we should talk about this. Or if not me, like, someone. You're so sad, Lou. You've never been sad."

He puts his bowl down on the floor by his feet and opens his beer instead. His eyes feel wet, and he doesn't even know why. He's not a crier. He never has been. He's been on the edge of tears for what feels like weeks. "I'm fine," he says. "I'm so, so fine."

Eleanor puts her bowl down too, and wraps an arm around Louis' shoulders. "Have you thought about, I don't know, maybe taking an interruption? Getting some time out? I just—I think you're getting sadder. I don't know if, like, you're well enough to be here. You could just go home for, like, a holiday." She sounds awkward and tentative and careful. 

Louis hates that. "If I leave now," he says, "I'm never coming back. If I go, that'll be it."

It doesn't sound as bad as all that. When the fuck did that happen? God. 

"Christ," he says. "If I go now, I'm not coming back."

Eleanor hugs him and kisses the top of his head, and Louis has to fight not to give in to it and cling to her. He pulls away after a minute, and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. 

"Let's watch something on the telly."

"Think about it," she says, and reaches for her laptop to load up iPlayer. "We can find out some stuff and whatever, do it all properly. At least think about it. I hate seeing you like this. Promise me?"

Louis nods. He's not entirely sure he needs to think about it. He doesn't know why he hadn't considered it before. 

Just, like, not being here anymore. Not being at uni. 

~*~

He gets home later to a quiet house and none of the lights on. He kicks his shoes off in the hall and pads into the living room, not bothering to switch on the light as he curls up in the corner of the sofa and scrolls down his contacts list on his phone until he gets to his mum. He presses call.

"What would you say, Mum," he opens with, not bothering with _hello,_ "if I told you I wanted to drop out and come home?" 

"Oh, _Louis_ ," she says, her voice catching. "What's happened, love?"

"I want to come home. I don't want to be here anymore. I want to come home."

"Something must have happened, Lou. Everything was fine when I spoke to you earlier."

"It wasn't," Louis says. "I lied. It's all gone wrong." He knows he's crying. He can't seem to stop it. "I want to drop out."

He knows she's upset too, but she's obviously trying to be sensible and calm about Louis being a total fucking failure. "Why don't you just come home for a couple of days to think about it?" she says. "I'll get you a train ticket for this weekend if you'll just come home and talk it over with me. Properly. Without making any final decisions yet."

"I've fucked everything up," he says, his voice catching on a sob. "I thought I mattered. I thought I mattered to people, but I was so stupid, Mum. Cos I don't think I do. I don't think I do at all. Everyone's sick of me. And I didn't try hard enough. At anything. They were so right. Everyone was right. I'm not good enough."

"Oh sweetheart," she says, and his mum's crying too. He's made his mum cry. "Why don't you come home in the morning instead, huh? Or tonight, if you want. There might be a train you could get that leaves later tonight. Do you want me to look up the train times for you? Let's not wait until the weekend."

"I'll book it," he says. "I'll see if there's a train. You don't have to."

"Go and look the trains up now. Call me back when you've found one. I'll buy it for you."

"You don't have to—"

"I do," she says. "I love you."

"I thought I mattered," Louis says again. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. "I thought this time it was going to go all right."

"Oh, darling," she says. Her voice catches. "You matter so much to us, all right? There are people in this world you matter to more than anything, okay? We'll fix this. Just come home. Go and look up the trains now."

He nods, sniffing. "I'll call you back in a bit."

"Okay. We all love you so much. We'll fix this, darling."

Except they won't, because they can't. Because Louis is the one that needs fixing, and he's all broken.

When he hangs up, he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes to try and stop himself crying, phone clutched in his hand. 

"You do matter," Zayn says, from the doorway. He switches the light on. "You fucking matter to us." He looks like he's about to cry. 

Louis had been so sure the house had been empty. Where had Zayn even come from?

"Do I, though?" he asks. His friends have all but forgotten about him, even though Louis is the loudest, most annoying person ever, apart from Nick Grimshaw, and Louis doesn't really like to think about Nick. He can't stop, most of the time, but he can't stop a lot of things at the moment. Nick Grimshaw is just one of things going on and on in his head in an endless loop. Louis is so, so tired of being this tired, and he's tired of fucking up, and he's so tired of being stuck in this life with everyone moving on around him. He's so tired of getting shit marks, and of Nick Grimshaw being _right_ , and of Nick Grimshaw being careful around him in the fucking Union, like he knows just how fucking fragile Louis is turning out to be on the inside. 

Louis just wants it all to stop. 

He's so tired of not being good enough.

"Course you do," Zayn says, and his breath catches, like a sob in his throat, and then he's dropping his bag onto the armchair and pulling Louis up into a hug. 

Louis feels a bit like it's happening to someone else, someone around him, and not him. He hugs back because he's supposed to, because he doesn't know what else to do, and if they end up on the sofa with Zayn's arms wrapped around him, then maybe that's for the best. "Did you just get in?"

"I was just leaving," Zayn says. "Was going to go to Perrie's."

"Right," Louis says, because everyone's always leaving. He nods. 

"Why didn't you tell us you were having a rough time?" Zayn asks, his hand covering Louis'. "If you were missing home or whatever, you could have told us. You could have told us."

Louis shakes his head. "It's not that," he says. "Anyway, you were never around. No one was."

"Lou," Zayn says. 

Louis doesn't have anything to say to any of this. He's supposed to be looking up train times. He extricates himself from Zayn and heads for his bedroom instead, picking up his bag on the way. 

He takes the stairs up to his room two at a time. His laptop's on the bed, and he shoves his duvet out of the way so that he can draw his knees up to his chest and wait for his laptop to power on. 

Zayn appears in his doorway. "Don't fucking run away. God, Lou. I heard you. You said you wanted to drop out. Why do you want to leave?"

"I just—" Louis doesn't know what to say. He shrugs his shoulders instead, as the front door goes, and Niall yells, _who's home, motherfuckers?_

"In here," Zayn calls, eyes still fixed on Louis. He sits down on the bed next to Louis, and waits for Niall to barge in, which he does. Niall pulls up Louis' desk chair, kicks off his trainers, and puts his feet up on the bed next to them both. He wiggles his toes and doesn't apologise for his smelly feet.

"They're proper minging today," he says instead, which Louis can tell is halfway to being the truth. "What's going on?"

"He's leaving," Zayn says, thumbing towards Louis. "He's fucking dropping out."

Louis looks down at his laptop. 

"What the fuck," Niall says, taking his feet of Louis' bed, suddenly all serious. "Tell me he's kidding."

"He's sad," Zayn says. "He didn't tell us."

"I'm fine," Louis lies. He doesn't feel like crying anymore. He doesn't feel much like anything anymore. 

"What's he talking about, you dropping out?"

"I might be, that's all," Louis says. "I haven't decided yet. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm just crap at being at uni, that's all. It's not the end of the world." It feels like it, though. It sort of feels like he put all of his world here in this house, and didn't realise until later that no one else had. That his friends hadn't. That they were his best, best friends, but maybe he wasn't theirs. It's like he can't even think about fixing anything else because every time he tries to think of something else, he just can't get over this question mark hanging over him and the lads. "Where are the others?"

"Don't know," Niall says, and he looks stunned. "I'll text them, tell them to come home."

"They don't have to," Louis says. 

"Course they have to, dickhead," Niall says, still texting. "One of us is fucking leaving, you don't think they'd want to know?"

Louis shrugs a little helplessly. Apparently he can't say _no_. 

Harry and Liam are almost home anyway, according to the text message Niall reads out from his phone. 

Louis texts his mum, _with the lads. Will book a ticket later. You don't need to pay. I love you xx_

If his eyes swim a little bit as he presses send, then he manages to recover by the time he looks back up again. 

"Why didn't you tell us if you were, like, sad?" Niall asks him again. "How'd you let it get this far? What the fuck's going on?"

"He said he'd fucked everything up and everyone was sick of him," Zayn says, and that was a private phone call. You shouldn't repeat stuff from a private phone call.

"That was a private phone call," Louis says. "You shouldn't have been listening in."

"How else were we supposed to know you were fucking leaving?" Zayn asks. "What, were we just supposed to get home one day and find your room empty? What the fuck, man."

"Was this, like, because of the sausages?" Niall asks. "I'd had a shit day, Lou. It was just—I didn't mean to be a bad tempered fucker or whatever. If you're, like, if you think we're sick of you—"

"I don't know, all right," Louis says, and the front door goes again. 

"Louis?" Harry calls, already jogging up the stairs, Liam on his heels. "What the hell's going on?"

"Louis is leaving," Zayn says again, when Harry stumbles into Louis' bedroom, tripping over the shoes by the door. Harry kicks them out of the way, but Liam tidies up Louis' shoes, and pairs them up by the wall. "For good. He's dropping out."

"What?" Harry says. 

"He doesn't want to be here anymore," Zayn says. "He thinks he doesn't matter."

"That was a private phone call," Louis says again, because it feels like stealing, like Zayn's stealing what's inside of him, locked up tight inside, and all of those feelings are Louis', and they don't belong to the other people in this room. 

"What do you mean, you don't matter," Liam says, from the open doorway. He still hasn't ventured in past the shoes by the door. "What the fuck do you mean?"

"It's like, it's not a big deal," Louis says. "It's fine. I just—I might leave, all right? That's it."

Harry starts to cry at that, which is weird enough because Louis should be the one crying, but it's like he's all dried up inside all of a sudden. Anyway, none of them were that bothered when they've been busy all term without him, and none of them were that bothered when they forgot his reading week birthday party. 

Niall wraps his hand around Harry's wrist, and Zayn looks angry and sad all at the same time, but Liam just stands there in silence. 

Louis shuts the lid of his laptop and draws his knees up to his chest again, arms wrapped around his knees. 

"Tell me you're joking," Harry says, but he's wiping snot across his sleeve, so Louis thinks Harry knows he's serious. 

"I'm not joking," Louis says. He's been tense and anxious for days, feeling sick most of the time since reading week, and he just wants to shut the door to his brain so he doesn't have to feel anything anymore. He wants that so much. He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the wall. 

"I heard him talking to his mum on the phone," Zayn says. "He was going to look up trains for tonight or tomorrow." 

Louis opens his eyes again. 

"Fuck," Niall says. 

"You were just going to walk out?" Liam says, in disbelief. "You were going to go _tonight_?"

"I dunno," Louis says. "I just—I can't be here anymore."

Liam stands silhouetted in Louis' bedroom door for a minute, and then he says, "Fuck. I—I can't fucking do this," and he turns right around and leaves. He _leaves_ , and Louis' chest feels even more hollow and desperate and heavy than it had done two minutes ago. 

"Liam—"

"I'll go," Niall says, and he pats Louis, then Harry on the shoulder as he goes past. Zayn stays where he is, knees pressed up against Louis', and Harry wipes his eyes on his sleeve and sits down on the edge of Louis' bed instead. 

"Is there anything we can do to make you stay?" Harry asks finally, after a long, long minute. 

Louis shrugs. He keeps thinking about Liam walking away. "Why would you want me to, though? It's not like any of you have wanted me around this term. You probably wouldn't even notice I'd gone. All I do is piss you all off."

"Fuck's sake," Zayn says, kicking Louis in the ankle. He wraps his hand around Louis' wrist. "You're talking out of your arse. You're our best fucking friend, dickhead."

But the thing is, it's one thing to say that, it's another thing to mean it. "I know you think that," Louis says, as carefully as he can. "But when was the last time we did anything together? And when was the last time we hung out and I didn't piss you off?"

"Lou—" Zayn starts. 

Louis shakes his head. "I was stupid to think I could do this," he says. "One of life's failures, me. Nick was right. I never try at anything."

Harry leans forward, hand to Louis' ankle. "He feels terrible about that," he says earnestly. "Honestly, terrible. You know he was the one who sent us all out to look for you that night. He didn't mean it. He keeps telling me how bad he feels. He's been wanting to apologise ever since it happened. He really likes you. He didn't mean it."

"What did Nick say?" Zayn asks. 

Louis doesn't want to recount it. It's humiliating enough that it happened in the first place. He lets out a breath instead. "He might not have meant it, but he wasn't wrong. Look—I appreciate that you're trying to make me feel better, but I'm failing everything, I can't fix it, you lot have moved on and that's okay, I just need to get over it. We'll have, like, a good time before I go, all right? We can go out and get properly bladdered tomorrow, and I'll get the train back on Saturday morning, okay? I'll have to come back and get my stuff anyway, and do all the boring stuff like tell uni and everything. You can probably find someone for my room, right? And if not I'll keep on paying for it. I'll get a job, or something. None of you will end up out of pocket. Swear." He tries to smile. It'll be easier like this. 

"You're giving up," Harry says fiercely. "You're running away."

"No," Louis says. He shakes his head again. "I've tried. I've tried all term. I've tried not to get bad marks and I've tried to hang out with you lot and I've tried hanging out with your friends and none of it has fucking worked, okay? I'm so tired. Sometimes you just have to fucking realise you're in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time, with the wrong people."

"We're not the wrong people," Harry says, and his voice catches. "Fuck, Louis, how can you think that?"

Louis fakes a smile. "It's all right, Haz. We had a great year last year, didn't we? Fucking ace. All of us. The five. Won't forget that in a hurry."

"You are such a fucking dick," Zayn says, and he sounds like he's close to crying too. "Can you even hear yourself?"

"Yeah," Louis says. "I can hear myself. Are you going to come out with me tomorrow night? Last fucking hurrah? Raise a glass and everything?" He doesn't recognise the words coming out of his mouth. He doesn't sound like him.

Harry wipes his eyes on his sleeve again. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry."

That's just stupid. Louis knows there's only one person to blame for everything falling apart, and it's him. "Don't be sorry," he says. "Just say you'll come out tomorrow. I'll text everyone, see who's up for it. You can even bring Nick, if you want. Tell him it's okay, what he said. Just—let's not tell people it's my leaving party, all right? Otherwise it'll just be a load of hugging all night, and I just want to drink." He knows there's no way he's getting through the night if he gets hugged. He'll fucking cry. 

"I don't want you to go," Zayn says. "I want you to fucking stay."

Harry nods his agreement. "Me too," he says. "God, say you'll stay."

"I can't," Louis says. "It's killing me, being here. You have no fucking idea."

"Well, tell us, then," Zayn says. "Tell us why you're so upset. Tell us, and we'll make it better."

"You _can't_ ," Louis says. "It's okay that you don't want to be as good friends with me as I want to be with you, all right? It's fucking fine. Just don't ask me to sit through it anymore, because it's not fair. All of you moving on; it's not like there's a rule against it. I just can't watch it anymore. It's not fair on any of you, either. It's turning me into the biggest fucking knobhead. I know you're all sick of me. I know it. I hate that too."

Harry wraps his arms around Louis' shoulders and holds on. "You've got it all wrong," he says, but Louis knows different. He knows fucking different. 

"It's not your fault," Louis says. "It's not anyone's fault." The only person who's wrong is him, and he doesn't want to talk about that. 

He really, _really_ doesn't want to talk about that. 

"Do you really think we don't want you around?" Zayn asks. "Fuck, why would you think that?"

Lou can't stop thinking about the Un-Birthday Party Project, and how hard he'd worked to give Niall and Liam the best parties ever. He tries not to think about it, but he can't help it. It sneaks in all the time. That feeling; knowing everyone had forgotten, or not cared enough to remember. It hurts too much to say it out loud. He shrugs instead. "It's all right," he says. "I know I've been a total knobhead." He pauses, clenching his hand into a fist to stem the shaking. "Is Liam okay?"

Zayn watches him for the longest moment. "If you think any of us are okay, Lou, you're totally fucking wrong."

Louis looks down at his lap. "I don't know how to be okay anymore," he says. "I don't know how to make it stop."

Zayn lets out a breath. "I'll go and see if Liam's all right. Make us all some tea, or something."

"Yeah," Louis says. "All right."

When Zayn's gone, Harry takes his space on the bed, sitting close enough that he can hook his arm around Louis' knees. "I don't want you to go."

"I kept trying," Louis says. "Over and over. I don't know why the things I want aren't the things any of you want anymore. I don't know why I could do fucking English last year and I can't do it this year. I don't know how to be okay that you've all moved on without me."

"You're my best friend," Harry says. "The best one I've ever had in my life."

"I've missed you so much," Louis says, before he can stop himself. "I miss you."

"I'm right here," Harry says, and he moves Louis' laptop out of the way so he can press himself to Louis' side. "I'm right here."

It still feels like he's a million miles away.

"Don't go," Harry says, arms around Louis' shoulders. "Please don't go. We'll fix this. We'll make you happy again."

Louis is jolted by that. People keep telling him he's sad—Eleanor, Zayn, Harry—but it doesn't seem like the most important bit to him. "I want to go home," he says, and he wants to cry again, and he's felt like this for weeks. He wants it to stop. "I don't want to be here anymore. I want to go home. I want my mum."

Harry hugs him harder at that. He kisses Louis' cheek. "All right," he says, and his voice shakes. "All right. We'll get you home."

Louis closes his eyes, and holds on. 

~*~

Liam comes in later. Harry and Zayn are in the kitchen, putting something together for dinner, Niall standing by the freezer in the back porch and yelling out the contents, as if that's going to help them put together something for all five of them on zero notice. Louis doesn't want to say he had pasta at Eleanor's. It feels like hours ago, anyway. 

"You all right?" Louis asks, when Liam just stands there, pink-eyed, in Louis' doorway. 

"No," Liam says. "How about you?"

"No," Louis says. Saying it out loud is a relief. A little bit of one, but a relief nonetheless. "No, I'm not."

Liam steps over the mess on Louis' floor, and sits down on his desk chair. "Why didn't you say anything? You're my best friend. Why didn't you tell any of us?"

Louis tips his head back against the wall. "It's stupid, that's why," he says. "Feeling this left out. Being this jealous."

Liam doesn't say anything to that. "Is this why you've been lashing out?" he asks finally. "You've been awful. You've been mean."

"I know," Louis says. He wants to say, _I'm sorry_ , but it's like the words are trapped in his chest. 

"Did you book your train ticket?" 

Louis shakes his head. 

"Do you want me to help?"

"Trying to get rid of me," Louis tries to joke, but it falls flat. Liam looks impossibly, desperately hurt. "It was a joke," he says, quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"If you think for one second that any of us want you to go," Liam says fiercely. "Then you're more of an idiot than I already think you are. I was just trying to help."

Louis is so, so sick of messing up. He wants it all to stop. He wants to go home. "I want your help," he says, pushing his laptop across the bed. "Please, Liam."

Liam carefully and methodically finds him a train ticket for early Saturday morning. He fills in all the search fields properly, and then finds him a direct train that leaves at nine in the morning. 

He won't let Louis pay, angling the laptop away from him as he logs in and uses his own card to pay for the ticket. 

"I got you an open return," he says, afterwards. His cheeks are pink. "So you can come back. I'll forward you the confirmation email."

"Liam—"

"I'm going to go and help with food," Liam says, and he shuts Louis' laptop and leaves without even looking back. 

Louis just wants it all to stop hurting. 

~*~

They take over one whole corner of the Student Union bar the following night. God knows what strings Louis' housemates pulled, because the only person Louis had ended up inviting apart from his housemates had been Eleanor, but there are a lot of people here. Perhaps it's the draw of the Student Union on a Friday night, or maybe it's just good luck, but whatever it is, there are enough people here that Louis can blend into the background a bit. 

And when has he ever, ever wanted to do that before? 

Everyone's here, and no one knows that Louis is leaving the following day apart from his housemates, and they're not letting on. He barely lets himself talk to them, because he's seriously managing to hold on via a tiny, tiny thread as it is, and he can't deal with their whispered conversations and sad looks. It's been hard enough all day. They're all been trying so hard, checking that he's okay, and it's too much. Louis has been used to being by himself these past few weeks, and his head's too much of a mess to deal with a day of Liam being quiet and confused, and Niall skipping lectures just to hang around his room and not know what to say, and Zayn bailing on Perrie to spend time in the house with them instead. Harry's brought him a fresh cup of tea every twenty minutes. He's so tea'd out. 

But now it's his last night, and Louis is going to get wasted, and finish off his failed university career with a total fucking blow out. He isn't even going to think about the fact that Nick's here with his friends, and that Nick has, so far, bought Louis at least three shots that Louis has knocked back without asking what they are. 

Nick is quiet with him, careful, and Louis makes sure that Nick never gets him by himself, because the very last thing he wants to deal with is Harry's promise that Nick wants to apologise to him for what happened at his party. 

Louis doesn't need an apology for something that had been _true_. 

"I've got keys for the upstairs venue," Nick tells him, just after half ten, when the bar's got really busy and loud and Louis is on his way back from the bar with a Jack Daniels and Coke. Nick has to lean in quite close so that Louis can hear over the music. It makes Louis' heart beat faster and he doesn't want to think about why. "I've got that music night thing tomorrow, and no one else is using it tonight, so I picked the keys up earlier." He steps back into the circle of his friends, raising his voice so that they can all hear. "We could all go up and pretend we're putting on an Indie Soc night, or whatever. Stop listening to this rubbish and plug in our iPods. I'm pretty sure one of us will know how to use the system up there."

"You just want to listen to bad hip-hop and Taylor Swift," one of Nick's interchangeable hipster friends says, leaning over his shoulder to kiss his cheek and swipe the keys off him. Of course Nick and his friends would have access to the keys to the Student Union venue rooms. Of course they do. "You're the worst member of Indie Soc ever. Let's do it."

"Louis?" Nick asks, one eyebrow raised. He's still being cautious around Louis, and Louis hates that. He doesn't want to be reminded of that awful night. He doesn't want to think about Nick feeling _bad_ for him, and sending Louis' friends out after him to check that he was all right. He definitely, definitely doesn't want to think about how, out of everyone Louis knows, Nick was the only one who'd seen through him. That Nick was the only one who'd thought Louis' behaviour was out of character enough to call him out on it. 

Louis had just wanted someone to notice he was hurting. He just hadn't wanted that someone to be Nick. 

"Fine," Louis says, stepping back, out of their circle. "Let's move this party upstairs."

He takes Eleanor to one side as they head out of the bar and up the back stairs. He'd sent her a text earlier, an _I'm going home in the morning_. She'd known he wasn't coming back even without him saying. 

He curls into her side as they go up the stairs, arms wrapped around her waist, her head on his shoulder. He's on his way to drunk. They all are. 

"You will keep in touch, won't you?" she asks, quiet enough that no one else hears. 

"Course," Louis says, even though he's fairly sure that leaving has to be like ripping off a plaster. Better off done quickly. He had thought he'd made the best friends ever, friends for life, a uni career he'd remember for ever. Now he just wants to forget. 

They've already plugged someone's iPod into the sound system by the time they get inside the upstairs venue, and Louis ends up sprawled across a bench by the window, head pillowed against Eleanor's thigh, her hand in his hair as an old Panic! at the Disco track plays. He joins in with _haven't you people heard of closing the goddamn door,_ just like everyone else in the room, but he doesn't stand up. He just stays where he is, Eleanor's hand in his hair, and lets it wash over him for a bit. Last night. He'll be gone in the morning. 

It's awful, is the thing. It's all awful. 

Liam still doesn't know what to say to him, and there's a painful twist in Louis' chest where his heart should be, just knowing that even at the end they can't reconnect enough for it to be like it used to be. Liam's over in the corner by the closed bar now, deep in conversation with Zayn, glancing over towards Louis every now and again. Louis doesn't want to know, doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to think about his essay that had been due at 5pm today. He hasn't started it, and he doesn't intend to. 

"You're really not coming back?" she asks. 

He shakes his head. Harry is with some of Nick's friends, and fuck knows where Nick is, but Niall's doing shots with Bressie in the corner with a bottle they've brought up from off-sales downstairs. Harry and Niall are spending most of their evening, like Liam and Zayn, watching Louis. 

"Time to move on," he says. It isn't like there's a huge fucking part of him that wants to find a way to fix all of this, but it really doesn't feel like there's a way to fix this that isn't just scrumpling him all up like a scrap bit of paper, and chucking him away and starting again, afresh. He just wants an escape from the inside of his head, just for a bit.

"I'll miss you," she says. 

"Miss you too, El." She's been the only reason he's put up with English for so long this term. He's hated these modules, and he's hated his tutors, and he's hated his lecturers, and he's hated not being able to do any of the fucking work. Part of him wishes he'd done the Chaucer stuff with Zayn, but the chances are he wouldn't have been able to do any of that, either. He's just shit at English now. 

The iPod they're listening to chooses that moment to run out of power, so two of Nick's friends battle it out to take over. Louis can hardly wait for the inevitable nonsense that's going to take over the speakers next. Maybe it's a good opportunity to go to the toilet. He stumbles awkwardly to his feet. 

"Off for a slash," he tells Eleanor, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "I'll come back via the bar. You want anything?"

"I'm good," she says, holding up her vodka and Coke. 

"Okay," he says, and he heads for the door. Nick is standing at the closed bar, with Harry, and Liam, and Zayn. Niall and Bressie and Niall's other rugby club friends are next to them, flipping stacks of beermats off the edge of the table. 

"Hey," one of Niall's friends says as Louis walks by, loud over the music. "Whatever happened to your massive blow out un-birthday party, Tommo? Thought it was going to be the event of the term?"

Louis goes very, very still. He doesn't look at Zayn, or Liam, or Harry, or Niall. 

"Nah," he says. "Never had it. You can come to the next one."

"Louis," Harry says, trying to catch his elbow.

Louis sidesteps him. "I'm off to the bar," he says abruptly, and heads for the stairs. He still can't look at the others. It doesn't matter if it looks weird, him practically running off. He'll be gone in the morning, and he's not fucking coming back. 

He's not fucking coming back. His heart pounds. 

He goes for a piss, and then goes to get a drink at the main Union bar. It's still stuffed full, even though it's late. He fights his way to the front, which is when Nick comes to stand next to him, elbowing his way to the bar next to him. 

"You all right?" Nick asks carefully. "Scarpered pretty quick from up there."

"I'm fine," Louis lies, but he doesn't put much effort into it. 

"Okay," Nick says, but he doesn't look like he believes him. When the barman comes over, he leans over and jumps in in front of Louis, the dickhead. "Two shots of tequila and two Jack Daniels and Cokes, please, mate." He looks back at Louis. "You okay with Jack, love?"

"I'm not your love," Louis says automatically.

Nick makes a face. "Take it as an apology," he says. He nods at the barman, who goes to get their drinks. "For that crap I said to you at my party. Been trying to apologise for ages, as it happens. Behaved like a right knobhead. Shouldn't have let you run off like that. It was crap."

Louis concentrates very, very hard on not letting his face crumple. "Don't worry about it," he says. "Wasn't like you didn't say anything that wasn't true, anyway. I'm over it."

He'll never be over it, but he's not telling Nick that. 

Nick lets out a breath. The barman deposits the tequila down on the bar in front of him. "Take these," he says, shoving the shots in Louis' direction. "Go and grab us a table?"

Louis doesn't know exactly why he obeys, but the alternative appears to be going back upstairs to face his friends and the un-birthday party that never happened, so staying here seems to be the lesser of two evils. There's a table in the back corner, near the closed-up cafeteria. Nick follows in a minute with the two Jack and Cokes. He pulls a chair up next to Louis. 

"I mean it," Nick says. "And I'm shit at apologising, but I'm really sorry. That wasn't a very nice thing to do."

"Like I said," Louis says. "You didn't say anything that wasn't true. And I was awful that night. Like, this whole term, probably. Don't worry about it."

"You up for tequila?" Nick asks, changing the subject. He waves a tiny sachet of cafeteria salt at him. Each of the shot glasses have a slice of lemon stuck on the rim. 

"Sure," Louis says, and he licks the back of his hand, waiting for Nick to do the same, and tear open the salt packet. He pours salt onto the wet stripe, and takes a hold of the lime. "Ready?"

"To apologies," Nick says, and then they're both licking their salt, and knocking back the tequila, and going for the lime. 

"Christ," Louis says, since that's not good tequila. 

Nick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He coughs. "You were just in my face, and being a pain, and I was mean, and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I've felt terrible ever since. I made you cry, and I'm so, so sorry." He puts his hand on Louis' knee. 

Louis trembles a little under his touch. "Nick—"

"Doesn't matter if you were being a pain," Nick says. "Doesn't mean I felt very proud of myself afterwards."

"Don't apologise," Louis says, because he has to stop this. Nick's hand is still on his knee, and Louis can't help but focus his whole attention on it. Nick's touching him, and Louis has been thinking about Nick on and off for weeks, and he's maybe never understood why until this moment. "Can we just not talk about it anymore? It's fine. It's all fine."

"Lou—"

"It's _fine_ ," Louis says, even though it isn't, none of it is, and Nick's hand is still on his knee. 

Nick strokes his thumb over the faded patch on Louis' jeans, just on the inside of his knee. Louis is mesmerised by it. His heart's pounding. 

"I really fucking like you," Nick says. "I've fancied you for ages."

Louis can't think of anything to say. "I'm awful," he manages, finally. "You said it yourself."

"I've always liked that about you," Nick says, and he laughs, like it's funny. Like being awful isn't tearing Louis apart. 

"You can't," Louis says. 

"I can," Nick says, and he keeps stroking his thumb over Louis' knee. He looks a little pink, and he's just as annoying and awful as he's ever been, and Louis still wants to push his buttons, still wants to poke him when he's being wanky, still wants to shut him up when he's talking rubbish. None of that has changed. But—his hand is on Louis' knee, and Louis doesn't want him to take it away. 

"Nick."

"I'm offering," Nick says. "I'm asking, Louis. Come back to mine. With me."

There aren't any tomorrows. Not here, not for Louis, not with this life, this uni, these friends. It's consequence free. He's going in the morning and that's all there is to it. 

"All right," he says softly, and Nick's face curves into a smile. It's so bright that Louis feels guilt and hurt right down deep into his chest, because Nick had been right, and Louis doesn't try. He doesn't fucking try. 

He can fuck things up without even putting any effort in at all. 

Nick darts in and presses a kiss to the corner of Louis' mouth. It's a promise and lie all in one. Louis hates himself. "Do you want to go now? We could just—I don't know, go and get our stuff from upstairs, and just go. Yeah?"

"All right," Louis says. He knocks back the rest of his whisky and Coke, Nick doing the same, his hand still on Louis' knee. When Louis stands up, his legs feel like jelly. It's not the booze. His hands are sweating, and as they take the stairs up to the venue upstairs, Nick bumps the back of his hand against Louis'. 

Louis twitches. His fingers brushes Nick's, and Nick laughs, loud in the quiet of the deserted stairwell.

He doesn't want to walk back inside. His missed un-birthday party is the secret he doesn't want to talk about, the elephant in the room that so far, he's been the only one who could actually see. He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to think about his friends forgetting him. Doesn't want to deal with it. He just wants to get his coat and leave. 

Harry's hovering by the door, and so is Liam, but Louis just nods at them, deliberately avoiding talking to them, going to get his coat from the bench where he'd been sitting with Eleanor instead. She's not there anymore, but both her coat and his are. Nick's over the other side of the room getting his stuff too. 

"Louis—" Liam says, when Louis comes back over. 

Louis ignores him. If he has to say one thing out loud about the day he'd spent doing tequila shots by himself whilst watching _Star Wars_ , he's going to crack, and all of the stuff he has locked up in his head is going to come tumbling out, and literally the only thing he has to do in the next twenty-four hours is get back to his mum's without breaking down. That's it.

"Lou—" Niall says. Louis shakes his head. 

He can't, he just _can't_. He can't deal with Liam's guilt, and Niall's sad expression, and Harry's apologies, and Zayn trying to put things right. Not tonight. They're all trying to talk to him but he doesn't have the energy to deal with it, with any of it. Even more than that, he just doesn't want to talk about it, the embarrassment and humiliation of being overlooked and forgotten. "I'm going to go," he says instead, and Niall's face falls. So does Liam's. 

"You ready?" Nick asks, popping up by his shoulder just as Harry tries to come over to talk to him too. 

"Yeah," Louis says, and he takes Nick's hand when Nick offers it, even though he's sweating and scared and anxiety sits heavy in his stomach. 

"Right," Nick says, tugging a little on his hand. He leads Louis towards the door, and Louis doesn't look back. There won't be a single person watching in that room who won't know who Louis is leaving with, and why, but Louis has enough stuff that keeps going round and round in his head without any hope of resolution. There's not space to worry about the rest. 

He'll be gone in the morning, anyway. 

There are people in the room he's never going to see again, not ever. 

His eyes feel gritty, and he wipes them with his sleeve as he goes down the stairs with Nick, Nick's hand still hot in his. They avoid the main Union bar in favour of sneaking out via the fire escape at the bottom of the stairs. The air is crisp outside, cold but fresh. The moon's bright in the sky, in between the clouds. 

Louis can't see the stars for the clouds. 

Nick backs Louis into the wall, smiling down at him, and cups Louis' face in his hand. "I've liked you for so long," Nick says. 

"Always knew you were a ridiculous human," Louis says, but Nick's smiling at him, leaning in to press his mouth to Louis'. 

Even now he's careful with him. 

It almost makes Louis cry again, because Nick doesn't know. Nick _doesn't know_. He should feel guilty, or at least have some kind of emotional response to that, but he doesn't. He doesn't feel anything that isn't terribly sad, but with a side order of want. All this time, and now all he can think about is kissing Nick back. 

Louis tilts his chin up, slanting his mouth against Nick's, pressing his tongue into Nick's willing mouth, going up on his toes to meet Nick's mouth with his own. He kisses him because he's sad, and so alone, and because there's no tomorrow, there's just tonight, and because there's no one left to care if he goes to bed with Nick fucking Grimshaw. All of Nick's terrible friends can judge the rest of their lives away, and Louis won't ever have to fucking deal with any of them. He kisses him because he wants him, because he doesn't have to think about seeing him again, and because if it was any night other than tonight he'd be fucking up everything and everyone by doing this, but it's all so broken already that it just doesn't matter anymore. 

"Come on," Nick says, after a minute. "Let's go back to mine."

"All right," Louis says, and he's just glad that Nick hadn't suggested going back to Louis'. He couldn't have explained the suitcase on his bed or the train tickets on his desk. He keeps his hand in Nick's as they head round the front of the Union, only dropping it when they have to push past the queue of people still waiting to get into the Union club.

"Are you as good in bed as I've been imagining you to be?" Nick asks, grabbing Louis' hand again when they get past the queue, and darting across the road in the path of a passing van.

"Cheeky," Louis says, breathless. They head for the ginnel to cut through to the next road. It's starting to rain. 

"That's my best chat-up line," Nick says, and Louis pushes him up against the wall and kisses him again, fierce and hard. 

"What's wrong with _there's a party in my pants, and you're invited_?"

"Not as good as _did the sun just come out, or did you just smile at me?_ "

"You're such a wanker," Louis tells him. He kisses him again. He just wants to keep kissing him. "And anyway, I'm better than your imagination." It's raining in earnest now, rain slanting off the cobbles. They set off for Nick's almost at a run, trying to pull their collars up against the rain, because neither of their coats have hoods, the two of them slipping on the centuries-old stone as they head through the arch and down the road towards Nick's house. 

Louis almost wants to laugh, because this is reckless and stupid and the worst possible life choice he could be making right now, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters any more. 

They fall into Nick's house, tripping over the pile of shoes by the door in their hurry to get out of the rain. The house is quiet, but someone's left the radio on in the kitchen. They stumble up the stairs to Nick's bedroom, kissing on every step, Louis trying to shrug out of his jacket. He's damp and his hair's wet and the house is freezing. All of his clothes are stuck to him like they've been glued on. When he tries to get out of his skinnies in the privacy of Nick's bedroom, he almost gives the whole thing up as a bad joke, especially when he falls over his feet and down onto the bed. 

Whatever. He does give up trying to get the rest of his clothes off, lying back on the sheets with his hands over his eyes. He laughs for the first time in forever. He's drunk and he's fucked up everything that means anything to him, and now he's half-hard in Nick Grimshaw's bedroom, watching as Nick battles with his own rain-soaked clothes. 

"Stop laughing at me," Nick complains, after his t-shirt gets caught up in one of his many ridiculous, wanky necklaces. 

"You're such a wanker," Louis says. 

"Charmed," Nick says, but he's laughing. He's always laughing. Louis didn't realise until now how charmed he could be by that, too. He watches as Nick strips down to just his pants, and he's all long legs and stupid necklaces and bracelets, his hair still managing to stick up in every direction even though he's just been rained on. 

"Hi," Louis says, after that. 

"Hi," Nick says, still laughing. He pulls off Louis' rain-soaked jeans for him as Louis takes off his t-shirt, handing it to Nick afterwards for no good reason at all. Nick drops it on the floor by his foot, and then crawls over Louis on the bed, his stupid necklaces bumping Louis on the chin. "Hiya."

Nick's legs bracket Louis', and he's holding himself up over Louis, and Louis can't help but meet Nick's helpless smile with his own. For the first time in forever, he can concentrate on something that isn't the mess inside of his head. It's a desperate, blessed relief, and he can't help but reach for Nick, tugging him down and into a kiss. 

He shifts their positions, rolling Nick over onto his back so that he's kneeling up over him, and kisses him over and over again, until he's hard and Nick is hard and Louis has sucked a love bite the size of Yorkshire into Nick's throat. _Something to remember me by_ , he thinks, even as Nick's running his hands up and down Louis' back, touch so light it's making Louis squirm in ticklish pleasure. 

His dick has made a little wet patch on the front of his pants, and when he looks down, Nick's are the same. Nick's pants are stretched out around his dick, the wet patch a darker shade of grey than his underwear. 

It's not like Louis has spent all that much time thinking about Nick's dick in the past, but now he's kicking himself for not thinking about it all the fucking time. 

"Yeah, yeah," Nick says, when he sees Louis looking. "I think we've established you turn me on."

"I don't think we have," Louis says, and there's the fluttering anxiety again, trembling in his belly like Louis can't even have fifteen fucking minutes when he's not aware he's a total fucking fuck up. "You should tell me about that."

Nick rolls his eyes. "Needy," he says, but he doesn't look annoyed about it. Instead, he takes Louis' hand and presses it to his erection, and Louis hisses in a breath as he feels Nick's dick twitch beneath his hand. He shifts, fingertips grazing Nick's balls through the cotton, and Nick gasps as Louis cups him. 

Louis really likes that he can make Nick make that noise. 

"We can take our pants off, you know," Nick says. 

"I know," Louis says. He grins, and only part of it is fake. He ducks in to lick his way into Nick's mouth, which is revolting, but Nick seems to be into it, because he lets Louis have his way. Nick kisses him back, one hand in Louis' hair, and Louis hasn't had sex in far too long. It's been far, far too long. Not since first year. 

"So," Nick says, pulling away. "Pants."

Louis makes a face, but clambers off him anyway, stumbling to his feet so that he can kick off his underwear and leave it on the floor by his t-shirt. He watches Nick shrug his off too, and then his dick springs free, and Louis is startled by how much he wants to suck him off. 

He wonders if that'll be an option. They only have a few hours before Louis has to go. 

Before he has to leave, for good. God. Fuck. He blinks, and then gets back on the bed with Nick, lying down next to him. His erection bumps into Nick's hip, and Nick smiles at him, rolling onto his side and tucking his foot in-between Louis'. He reaches down between them, stroking the crook of his finger down the length of Louis' erection. 

"You have a very nice penis, Louis," Nick says, and Louis bursts into laughter. 

"Oh god," he says, "I'm about to have sex with a total wanker."

"I love it when you talk dirty," Nick says, still grinning, like Louis is actually funny instead of awful. He cups Louis' face in his hand, stroking Louis' cheek with his thumb. "Are you going to let me wank you off now?"

Louis flushes, dropping his gaze from Nick's face. He needs to say, _I'm leaving in the morning_ , but he can't. Nick sounds so fond, and he's being so gentle with him, and Louis isn't as much of an idiot as his behaviour sometimes suggests. He knows what he's supposed to do. He knows what the right thing to do is. 

He just—can't. He can't. He can't stop it. 

"Louis."

Louis reaches down between them, and wraps his fist around Nick's dick. "Only if I can do you back," he says, hoping he sounds as fearless as he's trying to. 

"Nothing I want more," Nick says, and he's smiling again as he leans in to kiss him, and Louis wants to capture that, catch Nick's smile in his kiss, keep it safe and remember this moment afterwards, when everything about university is just a memory. 

Nick touches him then, sliding his hand down and round Louis' dick. His fist keeps bumping into Louis' and they don't stop kissing. They keep kissing all the way through, as Louis wanks Nick off, fisting the whole length of him, thumb catching the leaking pre-come on the upstroke. He's bigger than Louis, and normally Louis would want to compare and find himself broader or thicker, but this time he doesn't care. It's one night, and that's it. He won't see Nick again after tonight. 

If he kisses him harder after that, fist tighter, then Nick doesn't appear to mind. 

Louis comes first, his orgasm wrenched from him with one last twist of Nick's wrist. It takes him almost by surprise, having been at the brink for the last couple of minutes. He comes all over Nick's dick, and Nick kisses him through it, breathless against Louis' mouth. Louis tries not to lose his rhythm on Nick's dick, because Nick's obviously close too, panting into Louis' mouth, his hips rocking up so that he's fucking into Louis' fist. 

"Come on," Louis tells him, urgent, and Nick kisses him again then, pressing even closer, his dick bumping into Louis' as Louis wanks him to his orgasm. He kisses Louis even as he comes, and afterwards, he rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, breathless. 

"So," Louis says, after a minute. He's staring up at the ceiling too, his arm pressed to Nick's from shoulder to elbow. 

"So," Nick echoes. "That was nice."

Louis laughs at that. 

Nick leans over and kisses him again. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"When do I ever not want a cup of tea?"

"Stay right there, then," Nick says, kissing him again before he disappears downstairs, wrapping himself up in a dressing gown as he goes. 

Louis lies on Nick's bed and stares up at the ceiling, and tries not to think about everything else. His phone's in the pocket of his jacket, and Louis has heard a few tell-tale vibrations during the last half hour, but he doesn't want to look and see who's texted him. Just for a bit, just for a few hours with Nick, he wants the whole rest of it to just go the fuck away. 

Nick's bedroom isn't quite the hipster hangout that Louis had always assumed it would be. Yes, there's an old map of Paris pinned to the wall above the desk, but there's also a Beyonce poster on the back of the door, and the stack of CDs by the bed include Katy Perry and Justin Bieber, alongside a pile of other bands who aren't standard Indie Soc fare either. Maybe Nick had been telling the truth about liking Britney and Beyonce and A$ap Rocky. Louis had always assumed he was talking out of his arse. There's a copy of _Tales of the City_ on the bedside table, and on the inside front cover, a message from Aimee that just says, _try reading something sometime, think you might like this one. Love you grimbles xxx_. Louis has always assumed Nick spends a lot of time reading wanky philosophers just for fun. There isn't a bookcase overflowing with books, though. The only bookshelf has a pile of uni notes on one shelf, some more CDs on the shelf below, and some DVDs on the bottom shelf. There are a couple of books, but they don't look like the Sartre Louis had always assumed Nick would read. He's fairly sure one of them is Dan Brown, but the spine doesn't look read. 

He has a poke around on Nick's desk, too, at the pictures pinned to the noticeboard. There's one of a much younger Nick with a ridiculous hair cut, sitting in between the legs of an older guy. He didn't look in any way old enough to be Nick's dad. Maybe Nick has a big brother. There's another one of Nick with his arm round the shoulder of a much younger girl, and one of a couple who look enough like Nick that they must be his parents. They're older than Louis imagined. There are a lot of printed out Instagram pictures too, half of which Louis recognises, because he's spent some quality time over the last six months stalking Nick's Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. There's even one with him in it, standing behind Harry as Harry made stupid faces at Nick. Louis looks blurry and a little pissed off; he doesn't remember the picture being taken. 

"I've always liked that one of you," Nick says, coming back in with two cups of tea and a packet of custard creams. He kicks the door shut with his foot and puts the mugs down on the desk. 

"It's not of me," Louis points out. "It's of Harry."

"Yeah, well," Nick says. "I've got ten million pictures of Harry." There are at least five pictures blu-tacked up round the edge of the noticeboard, Nick's photos expanding way beyond the limits of the pinboard. He looks a bit pink. "I've only got one of you."

"Should have stalked my Twitter more," Louis says, although his chest hurts. "Or my Facebook."

Nick rolls his eyes. "You don't think it would have been a bit creepy if I'd started printing off pictures I've nicked off of your Twitter?"

"Well," Louis says. "A bit, maybe. But only if I'd found out."

"You're here now, aren't you?" Nick says, and he's gone even pinker. 

Louis kisses him because the alternative is thinking about how much Nick seems to like him, and if he does that for any length of time that pain in his stomach is going to just get worse, and just for a bit, he doesn't want to think about any of it at all. He just wants to kiss him, and have his cup of tea, and maybe start in on the biscuits. 

Just for a bit, he wants it all to be okay. 

They end up snogging lazily in the middle of Nick's bed, legs slotting in between each other's, the biscuits open on the duvet next to them, the tea going cold on the bedside table. They only break apart when the door goes downstairs, one of Nick's flatmates coming home, and Nick pulls away with a laugh. He's flushed pink, lips kissed red, and a part of Louis wants to know why they haven't been doing this for ages. For someone he thought he hated, kissing him is remarkably easy. 

Nick goes over to flick the lock on his door, coming back over as Louis drinks the rest of his tea. He hooks his iPod up to the dock by his bed, and buggers around with it for a minute, picking a playlist. It starts with Disclosure's _Latch_ , and Louis just raises his eyebrows. 

"Is this your shagging playlist?"

"No," Nick says, although he might have gone a bit pink, Louis can't tell. "It's just, you know. Music. Good music."

"That's appropriate for shagging to." If Louis tries not to think about it too much, it doesn't feel like he's leaving in the morning. It isn't that he doesn't want to go; it isn't that he doesn't know going is the best way out of this, it's just—this bit of tonight's been nice. It's just that Nick's nice, and being with him is nice, and there's a part of Louis that can't help but wish that they might get to do this again sometime. 

It's all right that it's just this night, though. Louis fucks up enough in his life, dealing with the fall out from this is beyond him right now. 

"Come on, admit it," he says, "this is your sexy playlist."

Nick rolls his eyes. He still looks pink. "Sort of," he says. "Do you want another go, then?"

"How romantic," Louis says, and when Nick raises an eyebrow, he blushes and blurts out, "Oh, shut up and fuck me, will you?"

Nick just laughs. "I'll make it romantic if you want," he says, and leans in to kiss him again. 

And he does seem to mean it, is the thing. He's genuinely affectionate, and they're only half-drunk by now, the two of them still kissing even as Nick shifts their position so that he's kneeling over him, reaching past him for the lube and a condom. Louis isn't stupid; he knows that this must mean a lot to Nick. It's obvious. It's just another thing for Louis to take responsibility for, another thing he's done this term to drive his friends away. 

He clings to Nick hard enough to leave marks, and Nick has to kiss him quiet, the lube forgotten on the pillow by Louis' head.

It's a while later, when Nick's iPod is playing Katy Perry's _Firework_ , that Louis pulls away. "You know what should be on your shagging playlist—"

"It's not a shagging playlist, for fuck's sake—"

" _It Only Takes a Minute_ ," Louis says, reaching in to pinch Nick's nipple. "Bit of Take That, there. That'll be nice."

"You're terrible," Nick says. He sounds quite delighted. It hurts. "You know what should be on your playlist?"

"What."

"There's this song called _I Want To Be Evil_ ," Nick says. "By this woman called Eartha Kitt—"

"Who?"

"My dad likes her," Nick says, shrugging. "Maybe it could be your theme song or something."

It hits a bit too close home for Louis, but he plasters on his best smile, and cups Nick's face in his hands. "I thought you were going to fuck me," he says, because he can't. He _can't_. He's barely holding it together at the best of times, and this isn't the best of times. It's potential and possibility all rolled into one, and Louis is the one holding the self-destruct button. 

He'd pressed it even before they'd started. 

"Fine," Nick says. "Keep your knickers on."

"Not wearing any," Louis says, tilting his chin up. 

Nick kisses him even as he's fumbling with the lube, and then they're shifting position so that Nick's kneeling between his legs, fingers wet with lube, and he's stroking them over Louis' hole, Louis with his knees up. Louis is so easy for being fingered; he always has been. He can't keep it inside, the little gasps and moans as Nick slides one finger inside of him, first one, and then two, going deeper now, Nick crooking his fingers so that Louis can't help but press down against his fingers and beg for more. Nick is slow and steady, refusing to speed up even though Louis begs him to. He likes being in control as much as Louis does, and he won't give into it, even for a second, even when Louis is squeezing his other hand and telling him _more_. 

By the time Nick is sliding the condom on and positioning himself between Louis' legs, leaning down to kiss Louis again, Louis is breathless and loud, desperate for more. When Nick pushes inside of him, he slides in easily, and Louis cries out. Louis isn't always loud when he has sex, but he's loud tonight. He clings to the headboard as Nick fucks into him, Louis begging for more the whole time, sweat beading across his brow as he wraps his legs around Nick's waist. They kiss awkwardly and messily, breathless and panting into each other's mouths. 

When he comes, it's with a cry, muffled only because of Nick's hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. 

Louis hadn't anticipated that part of it turning him on even more than he already was, but there's a lot about tonight that's surprising. 

Nick's orgasm follows quick on the heels of Louis', and Louis kisses him through it, messy and breathless and needy. 

They lay side by side after that, Nick's chest heaving, the tied-off condom dropped over the side of the bed in the direction of what Louis hopes is the bin. 

Louis is a mess. He's breathless and sweaty and he's come all over his stomach twice. He lets out a long, ragged breath. 

Nick slides his hand into Louis'. "You don't have to rush off, do you?" he asks, obviously hopeful, and Louis thinks about his unpacked suitcase and his train first thing in the morning. 

"Not just yet," he lies, and Nick's answering smile makes Louis' chest hurt. It all comes crashing down around him, everything he's done and everything's he's going to do, all the hurt and pain of the past few weeks. His missed party and his best friends and the stupid, ridiculous, awful misapprehension that this was going to be Louis' best year yet. He's such a fucking idiot. 

"Good," Nick says, and Louis buries his face into Nick's shoulder so that Nick can't see him desperately trying not to cry. 

He's such a fucking idiot. 

~*~

He can't stay all night. He's terrible at sleeping in places that aren't his own bed, anyway. He spends a couple of hours alternating between attempting to doze and staring up at the ceiling before he gives it up as a bad job. It's around four, anyway, and he has to go and pack. He's exhausted. He has to try and find his clothes without waking Nick up, which is easier said than done. He makes it as far as a t-shirt and his pants and half way into his jeans when Nick stirs. 

"Lou?"

Louis thinks, _fuck it_ , finishes doing his jeans up and crawls back over him, sliding one hand into Nick's hair and tilting his chin up. 

"What's going on?" Nick asks, still mostly asleep. He slurs his words. 

"Got to go," Louis says, and his throat burns with it all. He kisses the corner of Nick's mouth, soft and slow. He's trembling. 

"Stay," Nick says, against Louis' mouth. His hand fists in Louis' t-shirt. 

"Can't," Louis says. He kisses Nick again, properly this time, with tongue, breathing him in like this is the last time. It's the first time and the last time, all rolled into one, and Louis is kicking himself for not realising that he liked Nick before last night. Or in another world, perhaps, where Louis wasn't such a huge fucking fuck-up. He kisses him one last time. 

"Can I ring you?" 

Nick doesn't have Louis' number, and the only way to get it is for Nick to ask Harry, and when— _if_ —Nick asks him, Louis will already have gone. He won't want to phone him then. "Course," he says, as brightly as he can pretend to, and then he's gone, one last kiss to Nick's cheek. 

He takes the stairs carefully, trying not to wake anyone, and then he's out into the early morning rain, already wet through and freezing even before he's at the end of Nick's road.

So that's that, then. 

~*~ 

Liam's waiting for him at home, curled up on Louis' bed next to his empty suitcase. 

"Christ," Louis says, one hand to his chest. "Thought you were a burglar."

Liam had obviously been half asleep in Louis' bed, but he shakes away sleep and sits up, yawning. 

Louis peels off his coat and his wet jeans and t-shirt. His pyjamas are on the floor by the bed, and he pulls them on without looking at Liam. 

"Part of me thought you just weren't going to come back here at all," Liam says, carefully. "Thought you'd just fucked off without saying goodbye."

The thought had crossed Louis' mind. This house makes his heart hurt. He's so tired all of the time, just so tired of pretending. So tired of wanting something different. He settles for, "My ticket's here." He points at his desk. 

"I know," Liam says. "I went through your stuff."

Louis pulls on socks and a hoodie. He's still cold. "Didn't think you knew what to say to me."

"I still don't," Liam says. "Did you really sleep with Nick Grimshaw?"

There's no point in lying. "Yep."

"Did you tell him you were leaving?"

Louis shakes his head. He moves his suitcase off the bed and sits down in its place, bringing his knees up to his chest. 

"That's a bit shit of you," Liam says. "Harry says he's fancied you for ages."

Louis shrugs. "It's all right," he says, trying not to think about the fond look in Nick's eyes or the careful way he'd kissed him or the way he'd tried to get him to stay. The way Louis had wanted to. "He'll find out I've dropped out and he'll realise what a loser I am, and he'll get right on trying to shag someone else."

"Fuck," Liam says. "Were you always this messed up, or is this new?"

It stings, is what it does. Louis blinks a few times and wraps his arms around his knees. He rests his cheek on his knees, looking away from Liam. He's so tired of crying. He's cried more in the past few weeks than he ever has in his whole fucking life. He just wants it to stop. 

"Lou," Liam says softly, reaching out to touch his knee. 

Louis' breath gets caught up in his throat. "Don't," he says, wiping his eyes. "I tried, okay? I tried this year and it didn't work out. Just accept it."

"I don't want to. You're my best friend. I don't want you to go."

It hurts. It hurts so, so much. "Were you my best friend when you forgot my un-birthday party?" Louis asks, too tired to censor himself. "Or when I kept asking you if you wanted to hang out before your sound course? Or, like, any time? You never came to the pub with me or anything. Or when you went home every weekend?"

"Sophia—Lou, you've got to understand I've got a girlfriend."

"I know," Louis says, and he shifts position so he's looking at Liam again. "I know all of that. I'm not telling you that you can't have a girlfriend. I'm just saying—you had a friend first. And you forgot me. For weeks and weeks and weeks." Louis feels terrible. He feels embarrassed even saying it out loud, like even now, how left out he's felt is the elephant in the room that they don't talk about. "You all left me out. You all forgot me." He's so, so tired. "You all fucking moved on without me, and I can't watch that anymore. I just can't. I'll go mad."

Liam looks stricken. "Lou—"

"It's all right." Louis doesn't want to go over this. It's the middle of the fucking night. He's spent his whole life papering over the cracks and being loud and funny and the one that filled the space in any room or any relationship. He doesn't know why he's suddenly forgotten how to do any of that. He tries and there's nothing left inside of him to puff up and let go.

"It's not, though," Liam says. "It's like the complete fucking opposite of all right. None of us meant it. Not once. We love you. Won't you just—we'll make it better. Stay, Lou. Please."

Louis shakes his head. "I can't," he says. "These stupid fucking English modules. I'm failing it all anyway. I'm shit at it. I hate it. I had an essay due at five last night and I haven't done it. Haven't done any of it. I was only going to fail it anyway." He looks down at his knees. His hands are shaking. He stuffs them under his thighs. "And I don't want your pity friendship, all right? I don't want to be that person you consciously have to remember to be friends with. It's all right that some things just, you know, don't work out." His heart feels like it's tearing into two. He can't breathe.

There's a long, long pause. 

"If you think for one single second that it's fucking _pity friendship_ , Tommo, then maybe you're right." Liam looks distraught. "Some things really just don't work out."

He doesn't slam the door on the way out of Louis' bedroom, but he might as well have done. 

Louis doesn't cry, but only because he's sort of forgotten how to. 

~*~

All of the lads are awake and out of bed to see him off, even Zayn, and it's only half past seven in the morning. Louis refuses to let any of them go to the train station with him. This year ends here, in this house, where it began. 

Niall's made him food for the train, a Tesco carrier bag of badly wrapped sandwiches and bags of crisps. Liam won't really look at him, and Harry looks like he's been up half the night crying. 

Zayn tugs him into a hug. "You don't have to drop out, you know. You can go on interruption, or submit a mitigating circumstances form."

"You've been talking to Eleanor." Louis tries to laugh. "Do brilliantly, Zayn. Be excellent."

"This isn't fucking goodbye," Zayn tells him harshly. "Don't fucking pretend it's the end. You're not losing any of us."

It's too late for that, but Louis doesn't say it. He nods instead. 

He's not sure if Liam's even going to look at him, but when it comes to his turn, Liam hugs him way too tightly. "I'm sorry I ever made you feel like you weren't my best friend," he says, one hand to Louis' hair. "Cos you are, and it's never fucking pity, all right? Not ever."

Louis just nods. His heart's in his throat. "I know."

"You don't," Liam says, and he looks as sad as Louis' ever seen him. Knowing that he's done this, that this is his fault, is going to make it doubly easy for Louis to walk out of the door and not look back. At least he'll stop hurting people this way. 

Louis doesn't know how to fix any of this for Liam, though, so he just hugs him again, and then lets Niall bundle him up into a massive bear hug. It comes with an apology too, and Louis nods into Niall's neck, as Harry takes over. Harry pulls him into the tightest, tightest hug, and he's crying, and it takes every last ounce of Louis' willpower not to cry too. 

"I love you," Harry says. "And I am so, so sorry."

"It's all right," Louis says, a little numbly, and when the others all pile on for a five-way hug, Louis lets it happen, until his phone starts to vibrate to let him know that this is his final reminder, and he has to go if he's going to make it into town in time for his train. "I've got to go."

"God," Niall says, voice catching, and Louis _knows_ that Harry's crying. He just can't look at him. Zayn hugs him again, and Liam carries his stuff outside for him, onto the path to the gate. 

Louis looks down at his feet. "It's not because I don't think you're all brilliant," he says. "I'm just—I'm sorry I fucked it up."

"Fuck," Liam says, but Louis can't stay any longer. He shoulders his rucksack, and pulls out the handle on his suitcase, Niall's bag of food hanging off his wrist, and he walks down the road to the bus stop. 

He doesn't look back, not once. 

~*~

He gets a text message from an unknown number just as the train's pulling away from the station, just after he's stored all his belongings and found a seat right in the back corner of the carriage. 

_Had plans to take you for breakfast if you hadn't sneaked off in the middle of the night! How about lunch instead? My treat xx_

Louis looks down at his phone. Fuck. Fuck. _Sorry,_ he types back, _I'm on the train._

_Going anywhere exciting? Does this explain you rushing off at the crack of dawn, huh? Xx_

_Just home to my mum's. nowhere that exciting. Had to go home and pack._

_When are you back, then? We can raincheck lunch til then xx_

Louis takes a deep breath. _I'm not coming back_ , he types. _I'm dropping out. Last night was my last night._ Now he's going to cry. Not before, when he was saying goodbye to his best friends, but now, when it's too late. _I absolutely would have gone for breakfast with you if I wasn't leaving though xxx_

_You absolute bastard_

It arrives at the same time as a text from Harry: _when you come back to get your stuff we'll have the biggest un-birthday party for you. make up for messing up and forgetting before_. _Love you xx_

Louis cries in the toilet at the end of the carriage with his face pressed up against the wall, tears rolling down his cheeks and down off his chin. He makes no move to wipe his face. 

There's no point.


	3. You'll Never Be What Is In Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis doesn't feel like he's in the middle of a crisis. It just feels like the end of a road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to **hermette, turntlou** and **ofjustimagine** for their comments and assistance. You are much appreciated.  <3
> 
> Words of caution/further content notes: this contains a lot of the distorted thought processes and actions that come with being in the middle of a depressive episode, some poor language choices (particularly regarding mental health), a lot of Louis being very sad indeed, a question about suicidal thoughts from a medical professional, and one very brief mention of cancer. 
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for all the amazing comments that I've been getting, both here and on Twitter and Tumblr. They mean a lot to me, and if I haven't answered your ask / got back to your comment it doesn't mean that I don't appreciate you leaving it. I appreciate it more than you know. ♥ ♥ ♥ It's just that this is taking a lot of my time, and now it looks like there is going to be five chapters instead of four (who is surprised, WHO) because it took me longer to get Louis where he was supposed to be going than I anticipated. Thank you for reading <3

His mum's waiting for him at the entrance to the train station. She's watching for him, anxiously peering through the sea of people streaming off the platform and through the ticket barriers. Louis is towards the rear, still dragging his suitcase and his rucksack and his carrier bag of half-eaten sandwiches; he sees her a full minute before she sees him.

His heart feels like it's trapped in his throat.

She waves at him as he inserts his ticket into the barrier, and he tries to smile back at her, tries to be okay. He doesn't want to be the failure son, the one who couldn't hack it at uni, the one who'd fucked up so badly he doesn't have friends anymore. He doesn't want to look at her and know that's what she sees. He couldn't bear it.

"Hiya, Mum," he says as he's battling his stuff through the barrier.

"Hi, love," she says, smiling at him as he comes over, holding her arms out. She looks so relieved to see him, and Louis doesn't know _why_ , because she'd been so proud of him for going to uni, so proud, and now he's back. A failure _._ "Hi, Lou. Let me look at you. I've missed you." She cups Louis' face in her hands.

"Mum," he says, and to his horror—to his absolute, humiliated horror—his face crumples, and he starts to cry.

"Oh, love," she says. She tugs him into a hug, one hand in his hair, the other pulling him in close. She smells familiar, like her favourite Radox shower gels and Herbal Essences shampoo. She shushes him as he tries to say sorry. "Hey, don't apologise. No, it's okay. It's all right. Everything's going to be all right. You're home now. Everything's going to be all right."

~*~

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, once they're in the car and driving towards home. She's brought him a Thermos of tea and a little bag of chocolate buttons, which is what she used to give him when he was poorly. He doesn't feel poorly. He just feels worn out. 

"I'm knackered," he says. He's never not been able to talk to his mum before, but it's as if all his words are trapped inside of him, and he doesn't know how to unlock them.

"Lou—"

"Not now, all right? Just—not now." He can't bear the idea of disappointing her, of telling her she's brought up someone who people think is a total knobhead, and awful to boot.

"All right," she says. "Not now."

He knows she's indulging him, that she thinks he's a fuck-up, but he's too tired to get that far into it. He sinks down into his seat and drinks hot tea from his old Power Rangers Thermos, and eats chocolate buttons, and watches the familiar roads and houses pass by.

He's so, so tired. He has to blink away tears twice during the rest of their way home, and he tries so hard, but he can't help it. Somewhere half a country away, there's a hole where he used to be. He can't help but wonder how long it'll take for the gap to be filled.

He's exhausted and hungover, and Nick hates him and his friends are a mess, and everything is broken and he's back to square one. He can't turn any of it off.

He's a failure and he hates it.

He hates it.

~*~

His sisters are spending the weekend at their dad's, and the house is quiet with just Louis and his mum in it. He wanders round whilst she puts the kettle on, touching the new things, revisiting the old, thumb pressed to the corner of the picture he'd given his mum for mother's day—a picture of all her kids together. The house feels empty without his sisters, and part of him wishes they were here, loud and boisterous and all over each other, because it's too quiet without them, and because he needs something to cover up the fact he can't seem to remember how to make conversation.

His mum brings him a cup of tea and a Penguin biscuit. "Got to do the big shop in a bit," she says, putting them down on the coffee table for him. "Could do with a hand."

"All right," he says. It's not like he has any plans. No plans forever, in fact. God. There's nothing. _He's_ nothing.

She smiles at him and leans in to kiss his forehead. "Missed you. Glad you're home."

He nods. There are eight text messages on his phone, but he hasn't opened any of them. He just keeps hearing the vibration when a new one arrives, and he's masochistic enough that he keeps looking at the screen every time a new one pops up, even though it hurts. He doesn't want to be reminded, but he wants to know exactly what's going on all at the same time. It's like being pulled in two different directions at once, without any kind of middle ground where there's space to just rest. 

"Come on," his mum says. "Drink your tea, have your biscuit. Then we'll go to the shop."

He pushes the trolley round Asda later on, following his mum up and down the aisles as she tries to do a week's worth of shopping in one go. It never works, but they at least try. There's Christmas stuff everywhere. There are four boxes of mince pies in the trolley already. It's only just December.

"What do you fancy for your tea?" Mum asks, holding up two jars of curry sauce. "Curry? Or something else?"

"Don't mind," Louis says.

"Louis."

"I don't," Louis says. "Anything's fine." He misses his stuff. It's all still at uni, in a house he'd put his heart and soul into. He shouldn't have done that. He should have known it wasn't going to go well for him. It was his own stupid fault for hoping.

His mum just looks desperately sad all of a sudden. That's Louis' fault too. "Let's finish up and go home, all right?"

"All right."

He sees a couple of girls from school by the tills. One of them has a little kid with her, a toddler. He hasn't seen either of them since GCSEs. He doesn't go over and say _hi_ , like he would have done once upon a time. He ducks his head instead and walks away.

~*~

He sleeps for thirteen and a half hours that night and wakes up exhausted.

~*~

His mum shakes him awake on Monday morning. It's cold and he'd rather still be asleep. He tries to pull the covers up and over his head, but his mum won't let him.

"I've made you an appointment at the doctor's," she says, hand to his shoulder. "Come on, I've brought you a cup of tea."

"I'm not ill," Louis says, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to bat her away. His sisters had arrived home late the previous night, and for the first time in his life he hadn't known what to say to them. They were so loud, and so enthusiastic, and why that had made him want to cry, he still has no idea. He'd made his excuses after barely an hour, and had gone to hide in his mostly-bare bedroom for a bit, turning the battered old TV on top of his chest of drawers on loud. Then he'd cried into his old Donny Rovers shirt because there weren't any tissues, and he hadn't wanted to risk going down the landing and have any of his sisters see him so upset. 

He doesn't know what's wrong with him.

"It's for this morning, love. Quarter to eleven."

"Why aren't you at work? Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Called in sick." She stands up again and kisses his forehead. "Come on, up you get. Put some clothes on, and then we'll have some breakfast and set off."

"You're not sick," he says stupidly.

"No, but you're allowed to call in sick if your kids are poorly."

"I'm not poorly," Louis says. "And I'm not a kid."

"Louis, love," his mum says. "Firstly, you'll always be my baby, and sweetheart, you're too sad. You keep crying. I miss you, and the girls miss you, and I bet you miss you too. You're going to the doctors and that's that."

"What am I going to say to a doctor?" Louis asks, sitting up. His eyes are burning.

"Tell him you keep crying," she says, and she looks so very, terribly sad. "Tell him you're tired all the time, and you're not yourself, and you've come home from university for a bit."

"I'm not going back," Louis says, thinking about the hole in his chest where his heart used to be. He's masochistic enough that he's been on Twitter and Instagram and Facebook yesterday, seen pictures of his friends at Nick's music night from Saturday night, seen Harry's pictures from Sunday lunch. Seen Liam on Niall's Twitter, making a face for the camera, seen Zayn in the back of one of Harry's shots, almost like Louis had never been there. His jealousy eats away at him, chewing up his insides like there's no fucking tomorrow, like today's all there is, and it _hurts_. It hurts so much he doesn't know what to do with himself. 

"All right," his mum says. "Come on. Up you get."

~*~

His phone buzzes with a text when he's in the waiting room at the doctor's. He's looked at his text messages from the lads from over the weekend now, cautious _how are yous_ that he hasn't been able to reply to. If he can't find the words to talk to his mum, then he definitely can't find them to speak to his old best friends.

"Are you going to look at that?" his mum asks.

Louis suspects him saying _wasn't going to_ isn't going to reassure his mum that he's all right, and not poorly at all. "Fine," he says, turning his phone over.

The message is from Nick; it just says: _Can I ring?_  
  
Louis' heart pounds. _Am at the doctors_ , he sends back. He doesn't know what he'd say anyway. Maybe he should just get a new phone, or something. If gets a new one then he won't need to give anyone the number, and then he can just draw a line under this whole awful, failure of a university attempt. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and thankfully doesn't cry again. He's so, so tired of pretending he's okay. He can't do it anymore. His mum's sitting next to him, reading a month old copy of _Take a Break_ , and she doesn't need to see him get snotty again. He's only been at home a weekend and he's already cried basically on and off the whole time.

 _You all right? I can text you bad jokes if it will help x_  
  
 _No,_ Louis types, slowly. He glances at his mum, and then back down at his phone. His vision swims a bit. His fingers hover over the screen for a long time before he starts to type the rest of his reply. _I'm not ok. I keep crying. I'm so tired_.

_Oh Louis. Hope the doctor can help. How many tickles does it take to tickle an octopus?_

_I don't know. How many?_

_Tentacles!_  
  
 _That one's a Harry joke._  
  
 _It is indeed,_ Nick sends back. _Have you told him you're poorly? He'll want to know xx_  
  
 _I'm not poorly. I'm just fucked up. A fuck up. Whatever. Mum made me come._  
  
 _You're not a fuck up. Can I call you later? When you're back from the doctors?_  
  
Louis doesn't answer that one. He puts his phone in his pocket and waits for the doctor to call his name.

~*~

The doctor gives him a questionnaire to fill in, and he has to say whether the list of statements are true for nearly all of the days, more than half of the days, several days, or none of the days. He doesn't answer them in order, and even though he knows the doctor's watching him fill it in, he ticks 'none of the days' for _thoughts that you would be better off dead, or of hurting yourself in some way_ first of all _._ It's the only one he can answer 'none' for. The rest of them are all ticks in the 'more than half of the days' column. He blinks down at _feeling bad about yourself - or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down_. There isn't an option that says 'every second of every day _'._

"Okay, Louis," the doctor says, after he's looked at Louis' answers, and added up his scores. "I bet things have been difficult for you for a while, haven't they?"

Louis shrugs awkwardly. "Suppose," he says. He waits another long moment without saying anything. He's only got a ten minute appointment slot. Maybe he can just fill it all up with silence, so he can get out of here and go home and get back into bed.

"This says your depression is severe," the doctor says carefully.

Louis looks up at that. Depression, god. He doesn't have depression. "I'm fine."

"You're at university, is that right?"

That stings. "I was," he says. He keeps thinking: _depression._ "It's all right."

"What's all right?" the doctor asks. "University?"

Louis shakes his head. "The fact I'm not there anymore. Suppose."

The doctor makes a couple of notes on his computer. He pokes his glasses up his nose with one thick finger, and turns his attention back to Louis. "How much would you say you drink, Louis?"

"I'm a student," Louis says. He blushes. "I _was_ a student. Students drink. Everybody drinks."

"They do," the doctor agrees. He's a balding man in his fifties, his shirt stretching out over his belly. The buttons are gaping, and Louis can see the t-shirt he's wearing underneath in the gaps. It looks like a Superman t-shirt. "Do you know that alcohol lowers the serotonin levels in the brain?"

"No," Louis says, because he's an English student, not a biology one.

"Serotonin helps regulate your mood," the doctor tells him. "So, if you're depressed anyway—which this questionnaire says you are, Louis—then drinking alcohol is going to make that worse."

"Everybody drinks," Louis says again, because it's true. He's never met anyone who doesn't, apart from Liam at the beginning of first year, and he doesn't count because he drinks now. 

"Okay," the doctor says. "Do you use any drugs?"

Louis shrugs. "Weed sometimes," he says. "Not for ages, though."

"Okay," the doctor says again, making more notes on his computer. "And you're not having thoughts about hurting yourself, or—"

"I don't want to kill myself," Louis says. It's a stupid question. He's never even considered it, not for a second, the idea of not waking up in the morning. The idea of not being here. Although it would be tempting to just be, you know, asleep. Not wake up until it had stopped hurting. That's not the same thing. 

"All right. I'm going to ask you another couple of questions, all right? And we're not going to get time to get into the answers, so I just want you to go away and think about them a bit before I see you again." He waits for Louis to nod his approval. "Do you ever have a drink because you want to change the way you feel?"

"Everybody does," Louis says doggedly. "Everybody drinks to feel better."

"We'll leave that one for now, but I think you'll find that not everyone does that. Do you have an idea of the amount of units of alcohol you drink in the average week? Or in the average day?"

"No," Louis says. "But it's only the same as my friends."

"All right," the doctor says. "Let's talk about uni. You said you were a student. When did you stop being one?"

Louis tries not to squirm in his seat. "This weekend," he says. "I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"I'm home, aren't I?"

The doctor goes back to typing things onto the computer, then says, "I'm going to give you a prescription for antidepressants." He presses print and the printer on the desk starts chugging away. Why are all printers in doctors' surgeries from the last century? "I'm also going to print off a self-referral form for counselling. There's a bit of a waiting list, but if you get the referral form completed, then at least you'll be on the list. I'm also going to give you a few leaflets about alcohol, and one about drugs, and I want to see you again in two weeks time."

"Fine," Louis says. In two weeks it'll be the end of term, and almost Christmas, and maybe then he won't feel quite so much like he's got no where to go but further down.

"How about I do you a sick note for university, as well?"

"I've dropped out."

"Officially or unofficially?"

Louis shrugs. "Unofficially, I suppose."

"Okay. Talk to your department and say you've got a sick note. Then you can talk about mitigating circumstances."

"I won't need it."

The doctor sighs. "Do you think someone should be making life-changing decisions when they're in the middle of a crisis?" 

Louis doesn't feel like he's in the middle of a crisis. It just feels like the end of a road. He got himself here, just like he always gets himself to the point where he fails instead of succeeds. He should be used to this feeling.

"Objectively speaking," the doctor says. "What do you think?"

"Well," Louis says. "No? But—"

"Okay, then. I'll give you a sick note and then you can submit it to your university. I'm going to put a fortnight on it, all right? That'll take you up until Christmas, and I'll give you a new one then if you'd like."

"But I'm not at uni any more," Louis says in a small voice. He's holding a green prescription slip, and some Drinkaware leaflets, one about drugs, and a referral for the local area's counselling system, and now he's going to add a sick note to the mix. He doesn't quite understand.

"Take a break," the doctor says. "Give the anti-depressants a go. Don't get worried if they don't kick in straight away, it might take three months or so for you to feel a real difference. Stick with them. Submit your sick note. Get some exercise, cut down on the alcohol, get some rest. Come back in two weeks."

"I'm not depressed," Louis says softly. He can't be. He'd _know_. 

It's just—he can't stop crying. 

He doesn't know why he hadn't put it together in his head before now.

"One in four people are, Louis. You don't deserve to be sad all the time. You don't deserve to feel like this nearly all of the days." He waves Louis' completed questionnaire at him. "You don't deserve to be depressed. You don't deserve the way your brain's making you feel."

Louis doesn't mean to cry, but he ends up wiping his eyes on his sleeve anyway, even as he's going out into the waiting room to find his mum.

He wants it to stop.

~*~

"The doctor said I don't deserve the way my brain's making me feel," Louis says, in the car back from the doctor's. He's looking out of the window as they pull into the car park by the chemist. He can't get it out of his head. He hasn't said anything since they left the surgery. The car radio's playing Radio 2. 

"Of course you don't, sweetheart. Life's hard enough without your brain setting itself up against us too. You can turn the telly off or leave the room if it's _Eastenders_ or your friends that are annoying you. You can't ever leave your brain behind."

"I wish I could," Louis says, as his mum reverses into a parking space. "He said it was depression, Mum. Depression."

His mum doesn't look surprised.

"Shouldn't you at least look shocked, or something? I'm telling you I'm crazy."

She turns the engine off. "Firstly, you're not crazy, and if I hear you calling yourself that again there's going to be trouble. But secondly, no, I'm not surprised. I know you, Lou. You know your kids. I've watched you grow up. I know how you tick. And I know that this isn't you. I can see how hard you're trying just to stay afloat."

Louis sniffs, and wipes his nose on his sleeve again. He's so, so tired of crying. He never wants to cry again in his whole entire life. "God," he says. "I hate this."

"I know, love. Look, get your prescription out. You need to sign the back before we go in."

"He said it was severe."

"Well," his mum says. "You are very, very sad, Lou."

It's funny how people keep saying that to him, like it's the important thing, and not the fact he's fucked up uni, and fucked up the best friends he's ever had, and fucked up Nick, too. Nick, who'd been so thrilled to take him home, who'd been lovely to him after weeks and weeks of Louis feeling like he was turning slowing invisible, his fingertips going transparent at the edges. Nick, who he didn't like at all, but who had kissed him and made Louis feel something close to alive for the first time in weeks. 

Nick, who he isn't sure he hates at all. 

"I'm really sorry," Louis says. "I'm really, really sorry."

His mum just looks desperately sad. "There's nothing to be sorry about."

"Everything's so fucked up," Louis says. " _I'm_ so fucked up."

"Don't say that," she says. "You're poorly."

"It's not real, though, is it?" he says. "It's just in my head. It's stupid. I'm stupid."

She leans in and covers his hand with her own. He hasn't held his mum's hand in years and years and years. He wants to cling on and never let go, like she's an anchor in the middle of a fucking huge storm. 

"Mum," he says. "Please, Mum."

"It's going to be all right," she says. "You're going to be all right. We'll get through this."

But Louis can't see a way through, because there isn't one. There's just him, here, a bad friend and a uni drop out and a useless son, and now his brain's fucked up on top of all of that too. It doesn't seem fair. 

~*~

When they get home, Louis has a box of antidepressants in a paper bag, and an empty hole where his heart used to be.

He refuses lunch and goes upstairs to his bedroom, closing the door and curling up on the bed. There are the texts from Harry, and Zayn, and Niall, and Liam that he still doesn't know how to answer, and a new one from Nick. He opens that one.

_What do you get when you cross a giraffe with a hedgehog? A twelve foot toothbrush. If you need someone to call, you know where I am xx_

He doesn't know why he presses _call_ , but Nick picks up on the fifth ring.

"I thought you weren't going to answer," Louis says, instead of hello.

"I thought you weren't going to call. You all right? How was the doctor's?"

"He gave me antidepressants," Louis says. It's the first time he's said it out loud. "Told you I was fucked up."

"You're not fucked up," Nick says. "Don't say that."

"Why are you even being nice to me?" Louis asks. He can't get rid of the tight feeling in his chest. He's been crying, or been on the edge of tears, for fucking months. There's a fluttery feeling there too, anxiety sitting close to his heart like a moth's wings. "We weren't even friends."

"Fuck," Nick says. "God, you have no idea, love. I took you home on Friday night and I thought it was fucking Christmas come early. Have you any idea how long I've liked you for? And you agreed to come home with me. I felt pretty flipping lucky. Thrilled, really."

Louis wants to cry again. He's so, so tired. His breath catches in his throat.

"Hey, no," Nick says. "Stop that. It's okay. Do you want to talk about this? We can talk about something else. I can tell you jokes. Harry got me a joke book for my birthday. It's, like, the thousand best dad jokes. There's a whole chapter on elephants."

"They forgot me," Louis says softly. "I don't think they meant to, but they did. I'm shit at uni and everything's just shit full stop."

"Apart from sex with me, obviously."

"No," Louis says. "That was nice. It was really nice. I really liked it."

Nick lets out a breath. "What do you mean, they forgot you? Is this about your un-birthday party or whatever? I saw you practically run off after that on Friday. It's sort of why I came after you. I mean, apart from, like, wanting to apologise. And seeing if I could snog you. Obviously."

"It's not about the birthday party thing. I mean. It is. A bit. It's just—we said we were all going to have an un-birthday if we couldn't have a real birthday, and we decided when mine was going to be, and then they all forgot it. Harry wasn't even there, he went home for reading week."

"You know he idolises you, right? Like, worships the ground you walk on."

Louis picks at the knee of his jeans. "Not any more, he doesn't. I can't pry him away from you and your knobhead friends."

"Oi," Nick says, but there isn't any heat behind it. "He's always inviting you to stuff, though, right? Whenever we talk about anything, he's always, like, _oh yeah, Louis will like that, I'll text him_. That's not forgetting you."

"I can't—" Louis wants to cry. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. Even though he's fairly sure that at least some of the stuff he's feeling is unreasonable, everything in his head just sounds so rational and obvious. It's awful. "I don't want to just tag along with his cool new friends, though. I don't like all the shit that you do. I just—I wanted to do some of the stuff we used to do together and he never had time for any of that. Like, never. Something better came along and he picked that."

"Louis—"

"Something better came along for all of them, and they all picked that over me, and I pretended it was okay for ages, and it _isn't_. I can't do it anymore. It hurt. It hurt so much, and I tried to pretend it was okay, and I was shit at that too." He wipes at his eyes, and hopes Nick can't tell down the phone that he's crying. "I don't want their pity friendship, Nick. I'm sick of being the afterthought."

"You're not the afterthought," Nick says. He sounds a bit choked up too. Louis is really fucking great at upsetting other people. It could be his specialist subject on Mastermind, that. How to screw up other people. "Is that what you really think?"

"It's what it feels like," Louis says, and he doesn't know whether it's the truth or not anymore. He can't trust his brain to make the right decisions at the moment, and that's worse than anything else. He only knows what he feels, and he doesn't know if that's irrational or rational anymore. It wouldn't make any difference if he did know how irrational it was, anyway. He'd still feel it. He does still feel it. He is still feeling it. 

He just wants it to _stop_. 

"You got it right when you said even my friends were sick of me. You just said what I was thinking. What they were thinking."

"Christ," Nick says. "Fuck, Louis. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Louis says. He's got good at telling people it's okay that they feel rotten they were right about how much of a loser Louis is. Maybe that should be his superpower.

"I don't want you to drop out," Nick says. "I want you to come back. You said I could take you for lunch."

Louis shakes his head. "I'm a fuck up," he says. "You don't want to go out with a fuck up."

"But I do," Nick says. He lets out a breath. "Harry's been talking about how great you are since the first time I met him. It's been months and months. God, if you knew how long I'd liked you for."

Louis can't reply to that in kind. "I'm so tired. I'm just, like, exhausted. Do you ever feel like your arms and legs weigh about three times more than they're supposed to?"

"Sometimes," Nick says. "When I've done an all-nighter."

"I feel like I've done about ten in a row."

"You're poorly," Nick says. "'Course you're knackered."

"This doesn't count as being poorly."

"Dunno why it wouldn't."

"Sleeping with you has basically been the only good thing about the last few weeks," Louis tells him. His brain to mouth filter has fucked off.

"I am pretty spectacular."

Louis smiles at that. "Will you remember me?" he asks, playing with his frayed cuff. "Once I've left properly. Will you remember me?"

"If you think for one second your friends here are going to let you walk out of their lives, I reckon you've got another think coming, Tomlinson."

"I don't know," Louis says, as lightly as he can manage. "I am pretty forgettable."

"I'll let you off that because you're knackered and a bit poorly," Nick says. "I'll remind you it's bollocks tomorrow."

"It really hurts," Louis says softly. He doesn't know why he's telling all of this to Nick, of all people. Maybe it's because he isn't one of his housemates. Maybe it's because if he thinks about Nick it doesn't feel like his chest is trying to tear itself in two. Maybe it's because he's a really good kisser, and Nick taking him home was the only good thing about the last few weeks, and because Louis had really liked having sex with him.

There are a lot of maybes.

"I know," Nick says. "You sound like you could do with an early night tonight."

"I know," Louis says. His mum is standing in his bedroom doorway, with a cup of tea in one hand and a plate in the other. "Thanks for answering your phone."

"Anytime," Nick clears his throat. "Look, I know—I know we haven't exactly been good friends or anything, but I think maybe we could be. With or without the sex part."

"You're really selling it."

"I'm saying you can phone. If you need to. I don't really ever turn it off, so."

"Bit desperate of you."

"That's me," Nick says. "Desperate. Seriously, though."

"Thanks," Louis says. There's a pause. "See you," he says softly.

"Chin up, chuck. There's at least one person here who wants to shag you. Remember that."

Louis can't help but laugh at that, but Nick's already hanging up. His mum comes to sit down at the end of his bed.

"Made you something to eat." She hands him a plate of sandwiches cut into triangles, arranged around a big helping of salad in the middle of the plate. "I've done you ham salad on this side, tuna on this side, and egg and salad cream here. You're eating the salad and the tomatoes, so don't think about leaving that. There's a cup of tea, and a satsuma and a Penguin for afters." She presents the orange and the Penguin from the pocket of her apron. "How are you feeling, love?"

He shrugs. "Least I'm not crying." Much.

"Something I'm happy to see." She leans over and kisses the top of his head. "Who was that on the phone? One of the boys?"

He shakes his head. "Nick."

"I didn't think we liked Nick," she frowns. "Do we like Nick?"

He shrugs again. "We didn't," he says. "Now we do. I suppose."

"Good to know. What changed?"

"He kissed me," Louis says.

"Just kissed?" Louis goes red, but his mum just rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine. You like him now that he kissed you?"

Louis makes a face. "I don't know. I just like him now, I think. He wanted to take me out for lunch on Saturday."

She covers his hand with her own. "Have something to eat, love. Then why don't you have a shower, and come down to watch some TV with me? I'm going to give that uni of yours a ring, and find out what we have to do with your sick note, but after that we could watch a film, or something? We've got time before the hoards descend on us from school."

His essay was due at 5pm on Friday. He hasn't said anything about it. "All right."

"Okay. I'm going to go and phone your uni. Eat some of those sandwiches and all of the salad, please."

He's missed her. He's missed her so much. "Love you," he says.

"I'm glad you're home, love. We'll figure this out."

Louis isn't so sure about that. He has message after message from the lads he can't even bring himself to read. He turns his phone off, and eats his sandwiches with his knees up to his chest, listening to 5 Live on the radio. His chest hurts.

~*~

He ends up downstairs on the sofa in front of the telly after a while, half-watching an old episode of _Diagnosis Murder_ , and half-listening in whilst his mum exasperatedly tries to get some sense out of the English department. 

"No, I completely understand that you can't give me any information about my son, that's not what I'm asking... no, I get that. I know you can't even tell me if he's a student at the university, but he's sitting in my house right now." She's rolling her eyes at Louis, but Louis doesn't make any move to stand up and take over the call. Even the thought of it is making his hands sweat. "Hypothetically, if my son—okay, someone's son. A student—had a sick note and they weren't in uni, what would that person have to do to submit it?" 

She starts writing then, scribbling notes on a notepad shaped like a high-heeled shoe. Someone had given it to Fizzy for Christmas last year, and she'd hated it, so it had sat next to the phone ever since. "That's great, thank you."

When she puts the phone down, she shakes her head. "Jobsworth," she says. "God, you would have thought I was requesting your medical records or something. I only wanted to know how to submit your form." She sighs. "Right, we have to download the mitigating circumstances form and fill it in. Do you want to print it off or make us both another cup of tea?"

He doesn't want to do either. He wants to stay here on the sofa with his knees drawn up to his chest, one of the twins' My Little Pony blankets spread over his feet because it's cold. He definitely doesn't want to go anywhere near the university website, though. "Tea, I suppose."

"Fine," she says. "Off you go."

His limbs feel heavy, and sluggish, and tired. He almost doesn't have the energy to get up off the sofa, and all he's done today is be driven to the doctor's, and be driven back again via the chemist. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. The doctor said depression, but that's just a word. It's not _this_ , not wanting to get up off the sofa and make him and his mum some tea. It's just not. It's just him being crap. 

He makes tea whilst his mum fiddles about with the computer in the dining room. "Why is it that printers never seem to flipping work when you need them to?" she calls through, as Louis puts his face in his hands in the kitchen and waits for the kettle to boil. "It's like they _know_ we've got something important to print, and then they just decide, you know what, today I'm going to pretend to be a toaster."

"You're talking to yourself, Mum," Louis says, getting them two mugs out of the cupboard. "I'm not listening."

"You should be," his mum calls back. "For god's sake, just flipping _print_ , will you?"

"It can't hear you," Louis says. He stirs their teabags in the mugs and adds a sweetener tab to his mum's before pouring in milk. He carries them back into the living room and puts them on the coffee table before going to kneel down in front of the fire. There's a knack to getting the gas to come on, and he does it almost without thinking. 

"That's better," his mum says, coming back in brandishing a pen and a wad of paper. "Let's get this filled in and in the post today, all right?"

It's awkward filling in the form with his mum. He has to tick the box marked _illness_ , and then write _depression_ in clear letters underneath. It's harder when he gets to the box where it says, _Please give details of the nature of your mitigating circumstances, including dates._

His mum pauses. "When did it start, love? You feeling so down?"

He shrugs. "Dunno," he says. "Like, I don't know."

"Weeks?" she asks. "Did it start in November?"

He shrugs again. "No," he says finally.

"Well then. October?"

"I don't know. October, maybe."

"We can put September," she says. "Do you think it's been hard this whole term?"

He has to blink away tears again. He desperately needs to stop crying every two seconds. "All right," he says. "Put September."

She writes his answer for him, taking the pen and completing the box in her neat handwriting. 

It's even harder when they get to the box that asks for details of all assessments missed or performed with mitigating circumstances. 

"That'll be all your essays," she says. "Do you have the dates for when they were due?"

He shakes his head. 

"Does Zayn?"

"He's not in my modules," he says. "Eleanor is."

"Text her, then. Or give her a ring."

He's not ringing anyone. He texts her instead. _mum making me fill in mitigating circumstances form. need dates of all our essays. do you have them? hope ur ok xx_

Eleanor texts back straight away. _will email you the dates when i'm home, just at the shop. glad about the mitigating circumstances. hope you're feeling better. saw zayn, he wanted to know if i'd heard from you. you should call him xxx_

He should, he knows he should. He's not an idiot. He just can't seem to make the jump between knowing he _should_ , and pressing the call button on his phone. He doesn't know what he'd say, anyway. _Thanks for answering your phone, but, like, you didn't have to, and I don't remember how to have a conversation anyway._ It's pointless. 

"Is she sending them?" 

"She's emailing me when she gets home."

"Eleanor's a nice girl, I remember her from first year."

Louis raises an eyebrow. "Is this you trying to turn me straight, Mum, because it's not going to work."

"Maybe I'm just turning a little bit gay," his mum says. 

Louis tries not to look horrified. " _Mum_."

She smiles at him, patting him on the knee. "I have missed your expression of unbridled horror, love."

"You're not allowed to fancy any of my friends, Mum, that's revolting."

"Don't worry," she says. "I like people my own age."

"Right," Louis says, and tries not to think about his mum kissing anyone at all. He has four younger sisters, so she's got to have done it at least four times in her life—thank god for the twins—but Louis is fixing it firmly at that, and no more. 

"There is something I did want to talk to you about, though."

"Are you really a lesbian?"

"Not at the moment," she says. "But there's a very nice man who's asked me out a couple of times."

"Have you said yes?"

"Not yet," his mum says. "It's complicated. I'd like to, I think. But the divorce isn't properly finalised yet, and there's you and the girls to think about."

"What's complicated about it?"

His mum smiles at him. Her eyes look sad. "It's just—complicated. I don't know whether the girls are ready for their mum to have a boyfriend. And anyway, I met him at work. Well, the first time, anyway. It was a while ago."

"Is he a nurse? Or even better, a doctor. He can keep us in the lap of luxury. Jacuzzis in every bedroom."

"No," his mum says. "It's just a lot more complicated than it seems. He's a nice man. I just don't know whether it's all too complicated to try."

Louis nods at that. He doesn't want his mum to have a boyfriend, but he doesn't ever want her to be sad, either. The idea of his mum ever feeling lonely is too much to bear. "Sometimes complicated is good," he says, and he tries not to think about Nick. Everything tied up with Nick in his head is complicated. It's layers and layers of complications, and confusion, and underneath it all, the memory of Nick smiling at him, and making him laugh, and being so terribly happy to spend time with Louis, after weeks of Louis feeling like he was encroaching on his own best friends by wanting to hang out with them. 

"How about this boyfriend of yours, then?" Mum asks. "Nick?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Louis says. "I don't know. I thought I hated him. He's the world's biggest wanker."

"Sounds like a keeper."

"You know who he is. He runs Indie Soc with all of his awful, wanky friends, and he's Harry's new best friend."

His mum lets out a breath. "When you say he's Harry's new best friend—" she covers his hand with her own. "Do you think we should talk about what's been happening this term? How you got so sad?"

"I don't ever want to talk about any of it," Louis says, looking down at his knees. It's humiliating. He's so, so embarrassed by how needy he's been, how desperate and awful and knobheady and alone. 

"Well, I think talking about it might be helpful for you," she says. Louis' vision is swimming again. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve. "But, all right, it doesn't have to be today."

"Good," Louis says, although secretly he knows he's never talking about it. He's never admitting to the humiliation of this term. He's too ashamed. He doesn't want his mum to know that he's let her down. 

"Don't cry, love. Here, have a Christmas tissue. It's all right. You're going to be all right."

The tissues are in a box with Santa and the elves on a sleigh going round all four sides. "Nice," he says, blowing his nose. 

"Pound shop," she says. "It'd be better if the tissues themselves had Father Christmas on, though, don't you think? Getting a bit of snot on a Christmas elf?"

"You're dead weird, Mum," Louis says, through his tears. He fucking hates crying. He hates it so much he doesn't know what to do with himself. He never, ever wants to cry again in his whole entire life. He sort of wants to be dead inside, so he never has to feel anything again. He's so, so exhausted, feeling this hurt all the time. He hates it. 

Eleanor emails him then, and Louis sniffles through updating the mitigating circumstances form with his mum. Then she sends him upstairs to wash his face, and they take the form to the Post Office to get it sent recorded delivery to the English department. 

When they get home, Lottie and the twins are home from school, and Fizzy's walking down the road as they pull into the drive. 

Louis can't find the energy to talk to his sisters. He doesn't know when it started getting difficult. He makes his excuses, going upstairs to hide in his bedroom with the door shut, and the duvet pulled up over his shoulders against the December cold. 

He holds his phone close to his chest, and hovers over the text messages from his friends that he hasn't been able to reply to. 

He doesn't know what to say to any of them, so he says nothing at all. If he leaves it long enough, he's fairly sure it will go away by itself, anyway. 

~*~

His mum goes back to work in the morning, and when he wakes up, the house is silent. He doesn't know what to do with himself, after he's made a cup of tea. He tries the telly, but there's nothing on that captures his attention. He tries his laptop, because being home alone should necessitate a bit of wanking just because he can, but he's not in the mood. He can't even get it up.

He ends up lying on the sofa watching the White House blow up on one of the movie channels, and letting his tea go cold. He's still there when Lottie gets in from school, and she plonks herself down in the armchair and steals the remote. He's immediately bombarded with MTV Hits, and fucking Pitbull.

"Mum says you're poorly," Lottie says, undoing her shoes and putting her feet up on the coffee table. "That's why you didn't come down last night. Are those your pyjamas?"

"Might be," Louis says. His voice feels a bit croaky. He's been on the antidepressants for a whole eighteen hours now, and he's got a rotten dry mouth. He doesn't know if the two things are linked. He doesn't know what's going on inside his brain at the moment, let alone why he's got fucking dry mouth. His mum's been texting him to see if he's all right, but Louis has no idea how to say, _ashamed and lonely and humiliated and tearful_ , so he'd settled for _fine_. "How was school?"

"It was fine," Lottie says. "Same as always. Stop changing the subject."

"Stop being so annoying," Louis says. "Are you putting the kettle on?"

"In a minute."

"Where are the twins?"

"Fizzy's day for picking them up," Lottie explains. She checks her nails. "Normally I have choir on Tuesdays but Mrs Hattersley's off sick. So you've got me instead. How come Mum called in sick yesterday? What's wrong? Fizzy said she thinks you've got cancer."

"I haven't got cancer, what the fuck," Louis says. He sits up. "Why's she saying that?"

"She only said it once," Lottie says. "She doesn't really think that. Like, you look a bit poorly but it's not like you've got spots, or whatever. So it's not chicken pox. Or the flu."

"I'm not poorly."

"Mum says you are," Lottie says stubbornly. "Why are you home, then, if it's not you being poorly? Why were you hiding upstairs last night? We wanted you to play a game with us."

Louis shrugs. "Friend stuff," he says. He doesn't want to look at her. Doesn't want her to know that her big brother's a loser.

"Oh," Lottie says, drawing it out. "Is it Harry? Is he being a knob? He's too pretty to be a knob. Not as pretty as Zayn, though. Your Facebook's full of hot boys."

"Don't say knob," Louis says. "You're my baby sister. And stop talking about which of my friends are hot. That's just wrong."

"Not that much of a baby anymore," Lottie says. "Tell me, come on."

"What do you want for Christmas?"

"The Ed Sheeran album, and this jumper from Top Shop, and this amazing nail varnish thing which you put on top of the colour and it goes all cracked, and, I don't know, stuff from Accessorize. Vouchers. I'll take vouchers."

"Right," Louis says.

"Now we've got that sorted," Lottie says, "back to you. Do I need to punch anyone?"

"Only me," Louis says, getting up off the sofa. "If you're not going to put the kettle on, I will. Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Suppose," Lottie says, following him into the kitchen. "Urgh, I'm not being funny, but when was the last time you showered?"

"Are you saying I smell?" Louis puts the kettle on, and gets two mugs out of the cupboard. He sniffs half-heartedly at his pyjamas. He hasn't showered today, and he hadn't showered yesterday, but he's fairly sure he showered on Sunday. Maybe.

"Aha," Lottie says. "You haven't showered." She looks all too delighted by that. "Now that you're here, can you bug Mum into getting a Christmas tree? She says we can't get one until the weekend but it's December _now_ , and I don't want to wait all the way until Saturday. You can drive. Borrow the car and get us a tree."

"Mum's got the car at work."

Lottie makes a face. "Like that's ever stopped you before. Go and pick it up tomorrow. Buy us a tree, go on. Do it tomorrow."

Louis rolls his eyes. "Maybe," he says, pouring water on the teabags.

"Mum wouldn't say you were poorly if you weren't," Lottie says, poking Louis in the side. "She won't even let us stay off school unless we're dying. Remember when Fizzy went in and threw up in assembly? That was so embarrassing. Did I tell you I've got a boyfriend?"

"No," Louis says. "Is he nice to you?"

"The nicest," Lottie says. "His name's Martin. No, but really, what's wrong with you?"

Louis shrugs. "The doctor says I've got depression."

Lottie doesn't say anything for a while. Louis concentrates on stirring their tea and taking out the teabags. She passes him the milk. "Mrs Peabody had depression," she says. "She was off school for ages. Jenny Maguire says she saw her in Sainsbury's, though, and she had full make up on. Do you wear full make up if you've got depression? I thought it was all crying and sitting in the dark."

"I don't think there's anything to say you can't wear make up," Louis says, sliding Lottie's mug down the counter to where she's standing. "I'm probably not going to, though."

"I don't know." Lottie looks considering. "You could wear it. The lady in Boots made me and Vicky Fisher up last month and I reckon I could have got served in a pub. I looked proper grown up."

"You're a pain," Louis says. His chest aches. He's so, so tired of this. How can Lottie rattling on about make up make him want to cry?

"What's being depressed like?"

"Dunno," Louis says. "It's just, like, a lot of crying. And feeling sad. Everyone said I was sad. Didn't seem like the important bit to me." He puts down his cup and tries rooting through the cupboards for a biscuit. There are some Asda value Nice biscuits hiding behind the peanut butter. He offers one to Lottie.

"Have you been crying a lot?" Lottie asks in a small voice.

"A bit," Louis says. "Sort of a lot."

"Oh," Lottie says.

"It's okay," Louis says, even though it isn't, and there's a lump in his throat even now.

"I don't want you to cry," Lottie says. She doesn't sound as much like the confident teenager she'd been two minutes ago.

"I don't want me to cry either," he says. "It's not like I want to."

"I always watch Mum's _Friends_ DVDs when I'm sad," she says. "Have you tried that?"

"It's not that kind of sad," he says. "It doesn't go away when you watch something funny. It's there all the time. It's worse watching something like that, because you know you should be laughing, but you can't. You just want to cry."

"Is it someone's fault?" 

Louis thinks about Zayn, and Niall, and Liam, and Harry. His best friends in the world. He scratches at the fifth bird tattooed on his wrist, sneaking out from underneath his hoodie. "I don't think so," he says. "Well, mine. If I was different then things would be different, probably." He doesn't want to tell Lottie it's all his fault, that he's managed to fuck up the friendships that have meant more to him than any other friends he's ever had in his life. 

"Do you want to cry now?" Lottie asks, very, very quietly.

Louis looks down at the counter top and blinks away tears. When he nods, Lottie presses herself to his side, burrowing under his arm so that she's hugging him. 

"Don't cry," Lottie says, nose to Louis' hoodie. "Please don't cry."

Louis hates that he's making the people who love him sad too. He's even fucking up his family, now. He hates that he can do this, hates it. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve, and tries to keep from full-on beefing in his kitchen. "Go on," he says finally, and if his voice wobbles then Lottie doesn't mention it. "Your tea's getting cold. Go and put the telly on."

When she's gone, he puts his face in his hands and breathes. 

~*~

"Louis hasn't showered," Fizzy says, as soon as their mum gets in from work. "He's still in his pyjamas."

"Don't tell tales, Fizz," their mum says. She puts the shopping bags down on the table. "Lottie, can you come in here and put the shopping away, please. Daisy, Phoebs, come and give your mum a kiss. How was school? Lou, how was your day?"

Louis has taken over the armchair in the corner of the living room. He's still in his pyjamas, with the My Little Pony blanket over his feet. "Fine," he says. 

Her gaze softens, and she comes over and kisses the top of his head. "You didn't make it into the shower, then?"

He shakes his head, looking down at his knees. He's not done anything all day. He's exhausted again. 

"All right," she says. 

"What are we having for tea?" Lottie asks, sticking her head round the door, a bag of potatoes in her hand. "Do these need peeling?"

"There are pork chops in one of the bags," Mum says. "Chops, boiled potatoes, carrots and peas."

"I don't like carrots," Phoebe says, studiously ignoring everyone in favour of sitting in the middle of the living room floor and colouring in her Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles colouring book. 

"And Daisy doesn't like peas, I know." Mum rolls her eyes. "Lottie, can you make a start on peeling those potatoes."

She goes upstairs, and then, a minute later, calls Louis up. 

All of Louis' limbs feel heavy, but he goes up anyway. The shower's running, and his mum's at the top of the stairs, holding out some tracksuit bottoms, a t-shirt, hoodie, socks and pants. There's a towel, too, which suggests that Louis really hasn't showered since he got back from uni. He hasn't really thought about it much. "You'll feel better," she tells him, handing him his clothes. 

"Mum—"

"Nope," she says. "There is literally nothing that you could say that would make me change my mind."

"Have you got any of that coconut shower gel?" he asks. It's for girls and it has a lot of flowers on the front of the bottle but he likes the smell. 

Her face softens. "I'll buy you some tomorrow when I'm on my lunch," she says. "There's Snow Fairy in there, though. Got a huge bottle at Lush as soon as it came out."

"I'll be all glittery," he says. 

"And all the more fabulous for it," she says, kissing his cheek. "Go on, in you go."

In the bathroom, with the door closed, he can lean his head back against the wall and breathe in and out with no one watching. 

It's startlingly lonely. 

~*~

When he comes back downstairs for his tea, he's carrying a yellow soft toy My Little Pony, and a tiny toy owl, called Wonky because his eyes are a bit off centre.

"Nice toys," Mum says as he comes into the kitchen. She's draining peas into a colander. 

"They're Daisy and Phoebe's," he says. "They said that if I was sad, I should hug them."

His mum puts the pan down on the side. "Oh, love." 

"Lottie must have told them," he says. He doesn't really know what to do with Fluttershy and Wonky. He puts them on top of the microwave, but the carrots are still in there, so he takes them back again and tries to hide them under his arm. 

"They're trying to be nice," his mum says. 

"I know," he says. He just doesn't know how a couple of soft toys are supposed to fix the fact their big brother's a huge fucking loser, that's all. 

"Go and set the table, Lou."

Louis nods, wishing his legs weren't quite so tired. 

~*~

Nick calls him later on, when Louis' in bed with the TV on quiet. 

"What are you watching?" Nick asks, as Louis tries to turn the volume down. 

"Don't know," Louis says. "Whatever's on."

"Sounds like a winner," Nick says. "Aims made us watch _Bring It On part seventeen_ earlier. It was proper shit."

"Are there really seventeen _Bring It On_ films?"

"No idea," Nick says. He sounds familiar and warm and kind down the phone. Louis still isn't entirely sure why he'd answered his phone when he'd seen Nick's picture flash up on his screen. "How's your day been?"

Louis shrugs, pulling the duvet up so that he's almost underneath it, in a little hibernating cocoon of his own making. "Didn't do much. Watched _White House Down_ and then _Murder, She Wrote_."

"I love that Angela Lansbury. I want to be her. I dressed up as her at a party last year. You should have seen it. I did the tights and everything."

"Sounds hot," Louis says. He only half means it. 

"I've definitely got the legs for tights," Nick says. "Shapely, I think. My sister's always been dead jealous. She's got legs like tree trunks, apparently. I got all the shape in my family. I look good in a skirt."

"Wanker," Louis says. Nick just laughs. 

"That's more like it," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm not poorly," Louis says. "It's just, you know, it's in my head. That's not poorly."

"Don't know why it wouldn't be," Nick says. "You'd be a dickhead if you broke your ankle and then walked around on it without a pot on, wouldn't you? It's the same thing."

"I need to put my head in a pot?"

Nick laughs again. It's nice, hearing someone laugh. Everyone's so careful with him here. "Nah," he says. "You know what I mean. If your head's a bit broken then you need to be careful with it for a bit, that's all."

"You'd be a shit doctor," Louis says. He pauses and pulls at a loose thread on his pillow case. "The twins gave me their soft toys earlier. In case I got sad again."

"They your little sisters?" Nick asks. 

"Yeah," Louis says. "The littlest ones. Daisy and Phoebe."

"That was nice of them. Hang on, what kind of soft toys, though. Are they creepy? Is one of them a clown? Because if it is then I'm pretty sure Pixie made me watch a horror film that started like this. Have you checked in the wardrobe and under the bed? Try looking for this evil looking clown mask that wasn't there before—"

"Shut up," Louis says. "Unless you want me phoning you up at three in the morning because I'm too freaked out to sleep."

Nick makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. "I know we're not being serious," he says, after a moment, "but you can ring me whenever you need to, all right?"

"We're not even friends," Louis says. "You _know_ how much of a wanker I've been. You're the only one who's called me out on being a knobhead all term. You know all of that. You know I can't be doing with your stupid ironic friends and your stupid ironic music society and your stupid ironic football team. I don't get why you'd want to be at the end of a fucking phone when I'm just some giant fucking loser who you'd all be better off without. I don't get it."

"I miss your face," Nick says, after a moment. 

"What?"

"Your face," Nick says. "You've got the nicest fucking face, Louis. I fancied you long before I ever knew anything about you."

"I don't have a fucking clue what you're on about. Is this you saying I should be, like, seen and not heard, or what?"

"No," Nick says. "It's cos I don't think you're a giant fucking loser. I mean, like, half the time I think you're a knobhead, but I sort of like that in a guy. You make me laugh."

"I'm usually being a knobhead to you, though."

"I know," Nick says. "I like it when you pay attention to me."

Louis doesn't say anything for a moment. "You're really weird," he says finally. "Like, really fucking weird."

"Yep," Nick says. "And for, like, thirty seconds, I want you to not listen to that voice in your head telling you you're not good enough, cos there's this thing I wanted to tell you that time when you upped and left me in the middle of the night."

"Oi."

"Shut up, I'm monologuing. I'm trying to say something profound."

"Profound."

"Listen to me and not that voice in your head, just for a minute, all right? When I tell you again that I thought fucking Christmas had come early when you said you'd go home with me. Cos you should see your friends when you walk into a room, Lou. You should hear the way Harry talks about you. He fucking idolises you. You hold a room like no one I've ever met, and I'm a self-confessed narcissist. You're fucking brilliant, Louis. You're so fucking brilliant."

"God," Louis says, because he's crying. He's always fucking crying. He presses the heel of his hand to first one eye then the other. He doesn't want to let on for a second that it feels like he's breaking in two, right down the middle, like he's being torn into pieces and he doesn't know how to put himself back together. "How is calling me brilliant saying something profound?"

"I never said I'd be any good at it," Nick says. He pauses. "Did you let yourself believe it, even for a second?"

"No," Louis says softly. 

"Louis—"

"If I'm so fucking brilliant," Louis says, "how come I was so easy to forget? How come no one wanted to do anything with me that I wanted to do? How come the only way I got to keep my friends this year was if I did what they wanted to do, with their new friends? Because it's not fair, Nick. It's not fucking fair, and I don't know what I did wrong to make them not want to even fucking try with me. I don't understand, and it's not fucking fair, and I want my friends back." He's full on crying now, and he can't fucking stop. "It's not fair, Nick. It's not fair."

"Babe," Nick says, and Louis can't even say, _I'm not your babe_. He can't fucking breathe, the last thing he can think about is Nick's stupid fucking endearments. He wants his friends back, and he misses them so much it hurts, and it's too fucking late. It's too late and he's fucked it all up, and it hurts. It hurts _so much_. "I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Louis asks. "It's not like—oh god. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. How the fuck did I end up crying every ten seconds, and how the fuck did I end up doing it to _you_?"

"It's all right," Nick says. "I don't mind."

"I mind," Louis says. "I fucking mind."

Nick lets out a breath. "Look. I saw Harry earlier. He came round. I didn't know you hadn't spoken to him. I said I'd talked to you."

"Oh," Louis says. 

"Have you really not spoken to any of them?"

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say to them," Louis says. "I get their texts and I don't know what to text back. I don't know how it used to be easy to talk to them."

"Louis—"

"I don't want their pity friendship. I hate that. I don't want them to be bothered with me just because they feel sorry for me because I'm fucked in the head. I don't want that."

"It's not like that."

"How do you _know_?" Louis asks. "None of you were fucking there. _They_ weren't even there."

Nick doesn't say anything to that, and Louis hides his face in his hands. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry."

"Just, I don't know, text them a _hi_ , or something. They don't know you're all right. They're worried."

A terrible, awful part of Louis' brain thinks, _good_ , and thinks it savagely. "I can't trust the inside of my own head," he says, after a minute. "I don't know what's right and what's wrong any more. I don't know if they forgot me because they were crap, or if it's because they didn't want to be my friend anymore, and now they're feeling guilty. I don't know how to tell anymore."

"Just text them _hi,_ " Nick says. "I know Harry wants to make it up to you."

"I don't know if he can," Louis says. "God, I'm such a mess. I've got them fucking tattooed on my arm. Twice. What if I was wrong about them? It hurts."

"I don't think you were wrong about them," Nick says. "I mean, it's only really Harry I know all that well, but I think I'm right about the others too. They think you're brilliant too. Where you lead, they follow. Etcetera."

It doesn't matter what Nick thinks, though. It doesn't matter what anyone thinks. "They still forgot me."

"I know," Nick says finally. "I'm sorry."

"God," Louis says. "I fucking hate myself." He scrubs at his eyes with his fists. "I'm so sick of this. I hate it. I hate it."

Nick doesn't say anything to that, and Louis hides his face in his hands. 

"Sorry," Louis says, after a while. "I'm sorry you're getting all my shit. I'm not normally like this, I swear."

"It's okay," Nick says. He hesitates. "Do you really hate yourself?"

"What's there to like?" Louis asks, before he remembers this is the stuff he's supposed to keep secret. 

"Oh god, Louis—"

"Don't. I've gone over every single awful thing I've done all term about a million times already, okay? I know it. You don't need to pretend. You told me yourself, remember? I'm a knobhead."

"Am I helping at all?" Nick asks, after a minute. "Me being on the phone."

Anxiety sparks in his chest. He feels cold all over. "You don't have to be."

"That isn't what I asked, is it?"

Louis debates lying, and he debates telling the truth, and he debates everything in between. "I like talking to you," he says finally, quietly. He has Daisy's Fluttershy pony that he's using as a cushion. "Are you going to stop calling?"

"No," Nick says. "I just wish there was something I could actually, you know, do."

"I wish you could fix it too," Louis says, because his brain feels like a stranger to him, a heavy, intrusive stranger he can't fucking shut up. "I hate it."

"I know," Nick says, and he stays on the phone a bit longer, telling Louis about his lunch with Gillian and their altercation with a ginger cat. 

Louis even laughs. 

And afterwards, when they've hung up, and the only light in his bedroom comes from the TV and the little bedside lamp he's had since he was seven, he takes a selfie with his phone. He's sleepy and in his pyjamas and he has the worst bedhead, but he sends it to Nick anyway, desperately trying to ignore the voice in his head that's telling him he's stupid, and that this is a bad decision. He sends a message along with it, _heard you missed my face xx_

Nick replies almost straight away with a picture of himself, too. He's in his bedroom and the light is bright, and the collar of his t-shirt's all stretched out. The accompanying message says, _on the off-chance you might be missing mine xxx_

Louis falls asleep still holding on to his phone. 

~*~

He's woken up at arse o'clock in the morning by his mum. "Get up," she says, "I've made you some tea."

"What," he croaks, blinking away sleep. "It's the middle of the night."

"I'm not having you spending the whole day in your pyjamas by yourself again," she says, throwing an old hoodie at him, and his jeans. "I put you on the insurance for the car last night, and I want you to drop me off at work. I've got some errands for you to run today. Thought you could get on with buying some Christmas presents. I've written you a list."

"What," Louis says again, which is perfectly reasonable, considering he'd _begged_ his mum to put him on the insurance all summer, and she'd said it was too expensive. "The shops aren't open yet, because it's the middle of the night."

"It's not that early," she says, "come on, up you get. We're leaving in fifteen minutes."

"It is," Louis grumbles, but he pushes back the covers anyway. 

Fifteen minutes later, he's in the passenger seat, cradling his Power Rangers Thermos. "Nick told me he missed my face last night," he says, looking out of the window and not at his mum. It's raining outside, and freezing cold, and dark. Winter is a miserably damp representation of the inside of his head. 

"Oh yeah?" his mum says, tapping her indicator on. They slow down for the junction. "Sounds like he likes you."

"It's weird," Louis says. He's still thinking about it. "Like, I've been so caught up in how shit I feel, and my stupid fucking head—"

"Louis."

"My stupid bloody head, then."

"How about," his mum says, taking the right turn, "we stop calling your head stupid full-stop. How about that?"

"It is stupid." Louis tries not to look grumpy, but he can't help it. His mum's on earlies this week and it's the middle of the fucking night, and he's got depression. He's still not really sure he can say it out loud and not have it sound fucking ridiculous.

"You're poorly, let's leave beating yourself up for something outside of your control for another day, all right?"

"Whatever," Louis says. "But, like, he said he missed my face."

"I think you've got yourself a closet romantic."

"It's not that." Louis doesn't know how to explain it. "I've just been thinking about the inside of my head for so long, you know? It's not like I forgot that I had a face, that would be stupid, it's just—he said it and I forgot that there was more to me than just this. And that's ridiculous, right? Like, ridiculous."

"That voice in your head telling you you're not good enough is shouting really loud," his mum says. "It has to, to drown out everything else. It's not surprising you've ended up focusing just on that."

"Stop being reasonable, it's not fair. You could at least try and be like other mums and dads and yell _my son's not mentally ill_ at the doctors or something."

His mum glances at him. "Is that how you think other parents are?"

He shrugs. "Maybe, I don't know." He keeps thinking _mentally ill, mentally ill, mentally ill_. He's pretty sure that's how his biological dad would respond. "It's not like you signed up for a mentalist for a son."

"If you think that there is anything in this world that would make me love you any the less, Louis, then you're wrong. If there's a part of your brain that's telling you I might not love you as much because you're depressed, then it's lying to you."

"I can't tell what's rational and what isn't," Louis says. "Like, it seems reasonable to me that you'd love me less. I'm just trouble at the moment. I've let you down. I've fucked up uni, and I've lost my friends, and now I'm home again and I've got nothing fucking going for me at all. It'd be okay if you loved me less. Like, I could get that."

"Never. Not ever, all right? Never."

Louis nods. "All right." He looks out of the window again. "Nick said that to me and I'd forgotten that I wasn't just this. That I'm not always fucking drowning in my own stupid brain. That, like, I'm more than just this depression."

"You are more. You're a big brother, and you're my son, and you're a friend and a boyfriend—"

"Not really, we're not—"

"There's a million things that you are that's more than just depression, love. A million."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"I know," she says as she pulls into the hospital car park. "But it will."

~*~

He spends the day buying Christmas presents for his sisters, listlessly going through the side of A4 his mum had given him before going into work. There are people everywhere, all talking to each other and on their phones and carrying piles of bags; they all feel like they're a part of something that Louis feels on the outside of, and it's _weird_. He's never felt like this before, like there's a wall between him and the rest of the world. Like Christmas is coming and everyone is excited or tired or busy or happy, and he doesn't remember how to feel anything. It's an effort just to feel like he's in the same place as all the busy shoppers and bored shop assistants. It feels like he's looking in on everyone else. It's strange, and lonely, and terribly isolating. He wants to go home, but it doesn't feel any better there. It's worse, in a way, he's a stranger with his own family, and that's awful. There's nowhere to go where it feels better. 

In HMV he finds a set of bobble head Avengers figures, slightly reduced because the boxes are bashed; Liam would love them, and he dumps them all in his basket along with the stuff he's buying for his mum for the girls, and he covers them up with a Marvel t-shirt that Zayn would like. He doesn't know what he's doing, and it's not like he's got any money anyway; even if he did have, it's not like he and the lads exchange expensive presents or anything. 

He still buys them, and then he goes back to this shop where he'd bought Lottie the jumper she'd helpfully emailed a picture of to their mum, and he picks out a scarf for Harry. It has skulls and butterflies on, and is a dark, dark green with the pictures picked out in dark grey. Louis wouldn't wear it in a million years, but he's fairly sure Harry would love it. It's twenty pounds, and Louis has a present budget for his family of five pounds per person, because his mum had told them she didn't want them spending too much money on each other when they didn't have any free cash. Louis pays for it with his credit card, and doesn't think about how he's got literally no way to pay any of it off. Ever. 

He can't find anything for Niall, though, and he ends up hiding in the back corner of a Costa, surrounded by bags that are digging into his hands and are all too heavy, a million miles away from his friends and totally unable to find anything to buy for Niall. It shouldn't matter; they're not really his friends anymore anyway. It's not like he's actually giving the presents to them. 

It still makes him want to cry. 

~*~

His mum comes into his bedroom after tea. "Thanks for doing all that shopping for me, love. I didn't mean for you to do it all in one day."

He shrugs. He's found his old GameBoy Advance in his drawer and is playing Mario Kart with fading batteries. He puts it down. "It's all right," he says. "I missed _Diagnosis Murder_ , though."

She smiles at him, and sits down next to him on the bed, patting his ankle. He's not entirely sure that her smile meets her eyes. 

"What?"

"There were a few other things in the bags," she says. "Things that weren't on the list."

"Oh." Louis colours. He'd stuffed the things he'd bought for the boys deep inside some of the other bags so that he wouldn't have to think about them, but he'd meant to take them out and hide them when he got home. He'd thought about stuffing them under the bed and never thinking about them again. "Yeah. Don't worry about them. I might take them back. I don't know."

"Were they for your friends?" she asks. 

He shrugs, and won't meet her eyes. "Suppose," he says. "It was stupid. I'll take them back."

"Fizzy and the twins are watching _The Muppet Movie_ ," she says. "Lottie's just gone out to see Martin."

"Don't know why I need to know," Louis says. He feels all sort of caught up and trapped inside, like there's all this stuff locked inside of him that he doesn't know how to let out. He's fluttery and anxious and desperately, desperately sad. This fucking dry mouth is doing his head in, too. He's on his second packet of chewing gum today, and he's still not feeling any happier. He hates antidepressants. They're rubbish. 

"I thought you and me could have a bit of a chat," she says. "No interruptions. I've told Fizzy to keep an eye on the girls for a bit."

"There's nothing to talk about," Louis lies. There's nothing he wants to talk about. He thinks _failure, loser, letting everyone down_ on an almost constant loop; there's nothing to be gained by saying it out loud. 

"There is," his mum says. "Let's talk about these boys of yours, shall we?"

He scratches at the birds on his wrist. She reaches for his hand, stopping him. 

"We need to talk about that, too." There are red scratch marks all across his wrist. It's not a big deal, and he hasn't been hurting himself. The time he'd drawn blood had been an accident, but it's scabbed over now, and it'll go away at some point, just like everything else in his life has so far. 

"Mum—" he says. He tries to shake his head. He doesn't want her to know about how much of a failure he really is; he doesn't want to tell her how he lost the people who meant the most to him outside of his family. He doesn't want her to know that he isn't a good friend. 

"No," she says. "No, love. It's time for us to talk."

"Please," he begs. He can't say it out loud. He can't say any of it out loud. His best friends. _Even your friends are sick of you_. 

"When you rang me to say you were coming home, sweetheart, you told me you thought you didn't matter. Can we talk about that? What made you think that?"

"Mum," he says, and to his horror, his voice breaks. "Mum, I've made such a mess of everything."

"Oh, love." 

"I don't know what I did," he says, and the tears are falling freely now, and if he never, ever cries again after all of this, it'll be way, way too soon. "I don't know why they stopped wanting me around."

She wraps her arms around his shoulders then, kissing the top of his head. "It's all right, love," she says. "Let it all out. Come on."

He doesn't mean to tell her anything, too ashamed to voice any of the things inside of his head, but he ends up telling her about how he wanted this year to be the best one yet. He tells her about his tattoos, and she catches his hand in hers when he goes to scratch away the fifth bird again. She says, _no, love_ , and won't let him touch. He tells her about Liam's girlfriend, and his sound course, and how Liam would never go for a drink with Louis anymore. He tells her about Zayn and Perrie, and Perrie's double bed and Zayn's empty bedroom. He tells her about Niall's rugby club mates and his stupid club name and the Facebook group for its members, and the stupid #LIC hashtag they use to tag their adventures on Twitter and Instagram. About his terrible marks in English and feeling stupid in tutorials and seminars. About Eleanor understanding it all and getting good marks in her essays. About Nick, whose stupid friends love things ironically and all seem to want to be cool more than anything else in the world. About Harry—Harry, his best friend—who was never at home, and whose world had expanded way beyond the confines of their shared house. About their birthday parties, and how his had been forgotten. 

About how Louis isn't good enough, about how he's been awful, and a knobhead, and how his friends are sick of him. About how they had been the centre of his world, and he hadn't realised it wasn't mutual. About how stupid he'd been for even thinking he could have been the centre of theirs. 

About how he'll never be good enough, no matter how hard he tries. 

About how he doesn't matter, and he isn't worth trying for. 

His mum's crying by the end, and Louis can't bear that. He can't bear it. "I'm _sorry_ ," he says, still crying. "I'm so sorry I've let you down. I didn't mean to not be good enough. I tried and I tried but I obviously didn't try hard enough." He scratches at his wrist again; his nail catches the scab and it starts to bleed again. He's fairly sure that should hurt. "I'm not good enough and I'm sorry."

His mum shakes her head at that, grabbing his wrist. "Don't hurt yourself, baby. Stop that." She squeezes his wrist. "Listen to me. Listen to me, Louis. You are always, always good enough. You haven't let anyone down. You haven't let me down, and you haven't let your sisters down. You're not a failure. You are always, always going to be good enough for us."

He tries to shake his head, but she won't let him. 

"You are good enough," she says. 

"I'm not," he says. "I was awful to everyone. Nick was right. He said he was sorry, but he was _right_. They were all sick of me. Liam said I was mean and he was right. I'd been awful. I just wanted them to notice me again."

His mum pulls him into another hug. "We'll fix it," she says. "We'll make it all better."

The thing is, they can't. He's laid it all out on the line for her, and it's not fixable. He's fucked it all up. 

"Tomorrow night," she says, "me and you will have a proper long chat about what we can do, all right? Put an end to some of this."

It's late, and Louis hadn't even noticed. It's a school night and the girls are still up. He nods, even though there's nothing doing. It's all too late. 

She kisses his forehead. "I've got to go and put the girls to bed," she says. "Make a start on the lunches for tomorrow. Why don't you go and wash your face, and come downstairs? Put something on the telly for a bit."

He nods, trying to disentangle himself from her hug. He doesn't think he'll forget her crying any time soon. "Mum—"

"I love you," she says. "That is never, ever going to change."

When she goes downstairs, he hides his face in his pillow and cries. 

~*~

He checks his phone later. There are three messages from Nick—one terrible joke about giraffes spread over two of them, and one sent half an hour ago, _just seen Harry and Liam. They just want to know you're ok. Will you think about texting them? They're worried._

 _I can't_ , he texts back. _I don't know what to say_. _And I'm not ok_. 

_I know_ , Nick texts back, almost immediately. _Just tell them you're still alive. I don't think they believe it when I tell them. I saw a well cool dog today that I swear had a Mohawk._

_What kind of Mohawk? And what if they hate me. I can't cope with them hating me._

_The sticky up kind. I got matt to take a picture. I'll get him to text me it. And they don't hate you. I know they left you out and it was rubbish but I don't think it was because they didn't want to be your friend._

_Feels like it_

_I know. Please text them. They're so worried. you can ring me afterwards if you want. I'll tell you all about this dog I'm going to get when I'm all graduated and everything._

Sometimes Louis forgets that Nick's in his third year, and this is his last year at uni. He texts back, _ok_. 

Then he opens a blank text message, and adds Liam, Zayn, Niall and Harry to the _to_ box. _Sorry for everything this term_ , he types, very slowly. His heart's pounding. He wipes his nose on his sleeve. _I hate that it all went so wrong and I messed it all up_. _Mum took me to the doctor and he signed me off uni n said I had depression. I didn't mean to be awful. I just felt so left out. Please don't hate me._

He presses send, and then thumbs through to his contacts, scrolling down until he gets to Nick's name. He presses _call_. 

"I did it," he says, as soon as Nick answers. He feels sick. "Tell me about this dog, then."

"All right," Nick says. 

Louis curls up in the corner of his bed with his knees up to his chest and listens.


	4. Tremble For Yourself, My Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Because there must have been something that I did that made you all not want to do any of the stuff we used to do any more, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I kept trying, but it felt like I was always, like, five steps behind you all. Like you'd moved on and I was just where I always was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to **hermette, turntlou,** and **ofjustimagine** for their help and support and invaluable betas. ♥ 
> 
> Words of caution/ further content notes: this contains Louis still being very sad, a lot of the distorted thought processes and actions that come with being in the middle of a depressive episode, poor language choices (particularly with respect to mental health), self harming behaviours (not cutting), discussion of self harm, people not reacting to/dealing with mental health as well as you might hope, conversations about suicidal feelings and intent (NB: Louis is not suicidal), and panic attacks. 
> 
> If you want to ask anything else about the content, then you can send me an [ask on Tumblr](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/ask) and I'll do my best to answer your question. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments and asks I've got about this. Some of you have shared your personal experiences with me, and I haven't felt comfortable posting those on Tumblr just so I can reply, but I appreciated your comments so very much indeed. So, thank you. ♥ Sorry this has taken so long. I've rewritten parts of this about eleven times. 
> 
> I still don't know whether this is going to be five or six chapters in total. I had an idea of where I wanted to end this, but I might have left too much content to fit into one chapter. No one's surprised by that, I'm sure. 
> 
> Fanmix by candyflossandtears [available here](http://candyflossandtears.tumblr.com/post/89933461750/not-your-fault-but-mine-fanmix-based-off-of).
> 
> Fanmix by jessimond [available here](http://jessimond.tumblr.com/post/90788903375/not-your-fault-but-mine-a-fanmix-to-accompany).

There's a long list in his mum's handwriting pinned to the fridge with a Jorvik magnet. It says _Louis' Keeping Busy To-Do List_ in big letters at the top, and it starts with _buying a Christmas tree_ and ends with _hoovering all of downstairs_. There are another eleven items in between, and seriously, Louis doesn't want to do any of them. The last thing he wants to do is cross anything off a list his mum's made because his brain's all buggered up and broken. He loves his mum, but all he wants to do is make himself a cup of tea and go back to bed. He's tired.

He's so, so tired.

The house is empty, the girls already at school, and he's just back from dropping his mum off at work. It's quiet with no one else around, and Louis' never been so aware of what it's like when it's just him and his brain for company; it's like a never ending song he can't turn off that just says _you're not good enough_ over and over and over.

It's the truth, but he wishes he wasn't being told it so relentlessly.

He makes tea and a bowl of Weetabix with hot milk and sugar, and goes to settle in the living room with the TV remote and morning television, curling up under the My Little Pony blanket against the wet December cold. Lorraine's on. The idea that this is it, that this is his future, makes him want to bury his head under the blanket and not come out again until spring. That there's nothing in his future that isn't this, over and over and over again. A future of nothing but daytime TV. It's desperately awful.

He still hasn't checked his phone for messages since texting the lads last night. He'd turned his phone off after talking to Nick, half-terrified that any replies were just going to reinforce what his head's been telling him: that he's useless, and a worthless friend, and easily replaceable, and that he doesn't matter. He just can't cope with having to deal with any of that. It's easier not to know, in a way. It's not like him to be able to withstand the masochistic draw towards looking at his phone. It's the same draw that's made him check in on Twitter and Instagram and Facebook, even though he knows—he _knows_ —that the only thing he's going to see is his friends having fun without him. There's literally nothing that hurts as much as him knowing that he isn't missed, that the gap he's left behind him is already being filled, closing around him like he wasn't even ever there.

He hasn't been able to stop looking, though, even though he knows it's going to hurt. It's like picking a scab just to watch it bleed.

In the end, he goes to get his phone from upstairs, switching it on as he comes back down. It beeps with a pile of incoming messages. There's one from Nick, sent at some point after their phone conversation last night, that says, _keep your head up chick. Remember what I said, there's still someone here who wants to shag you, and that you have friends even if we've fucked up this term_.

He doesn't cry, which is a nice change from yesterday. _You're awful_ , he texts back, _stop being so nice to me_. He doesn't expect a reply; Nick's hours tend to lend themselves to late nights rather than early mornings. There's a message from Eleanor too, just asking how he is, and two from Harry, one from Niall, and one from Zayn. He replies to Eleanor's with, _really sad :( hate feeling like this. miss you x_

It's even more difficult to open the messages from the lads. His heart's pounding and he feels like he's going to throw up, anxiety twisting in his belly like really terrible, shaky nausea. He starts with Harry's, which says, _I'm so sorry. I miss—_  
  
Louis doesn't read the rest of it, going back out and into Niall's. He can't bear to see what comes next. He can't deal with it, not Harry's sorrow, nor his apologies, nor anything else. It hurts too much and he feels too bad about everything to deal with it right now.

Niall's text says, _house isn't the same without you mate !! glad you've been to the docs ! now you can concentrate on getting well and coming back to see us !!_

It hurts like someone's squeezing his chest in a vice, and he doesn't even know why.

Zayn's says, _we really miss you mate. it's not the same without you. there's a huge gap in everything where you're supposed to be. house feels really weird and empty. get better soon, we all miss you xx_

He doesn't mean to cry, but he just can't make sense of any of it. Not his head, not the house and his friends carrying on without him, not Nick still wanting to shag him even though he's certified mental now. Not his mum acting like she's proud of him, not his sisters giving him their soft toys and being careful with him like he's fragile.

Not the fact that there isn't a message from Liam.

He wants to text him, _have you forgotten me already_ and _I thought we were friends_ and _I miss you so much it hurts_ , but he can't. He just can't.

The five tattooed birds on his wrist stand out to him like a brand, a _how stupid were you_ brand, a _you thought you mattered_ indelible memory he's going to have forever. There are red scratches across the fifth one that he doesn't even remember putting there. He doesn't even remember making them, and they must have hurt, but he didn't feel a thing.

That's scary, if he lets himself think about it.

~*~

He drags himself downstairs to make himself a sandwich at lunchtime. His mum will ask what he had when she gets home, so he has to at least make an attempt at eating something. There's a voicemail notification on his phone. He doesn't remember his phone ringing, but then he'd spent half the morning in bed again with the covers pulled up, so he might have missed it then. He hadn't brought his phone upstairs. He doesn't need to carry it round with him all the time like he always has before. He can feel the gap closing around the space where he used to be, so there's less and less space for him to squeeze back in to. Soon there won't be a space at all. It's suffocating.

The voicemail's from Liam.

The temptation to just ignore the little voicemail icon is almost too much to bear, but the truth is he hates himself just enough that he needs to know what Liam thinks about him, even if it hurts.

He sits on the cold floor in the kitchen with his knees up to his chest and presses _call_.

_Lou? God, I'm sorry. I went to bed early last night and I just crashed out, and I woke up and then I saw your message, I wasn't ignoring it. I got up and saw Zayn and he told me about it too, and I'm really sorry I wasn't awake last night. I didn't know you were, like, feeling depressed or anything, even though you were so sad, and I feel like an idiot because you're my best friend, and I don't know how everything got here, but I really wish I could talk to you. I want to make sure you're okay, so if you could phone me or something so that we could stop worrying, that would be great. So, uh, yeah. Like, call me. Or one of the others. We all want you to get better soon. So, thanks. Right. Call me. Bye._

Louis spends a long time sitting where he is, cold on the kitchen floor, before he finds Liam's number and presses _call_.

His hands are shaking.

The phone rings twice before Liam answers it. 

"God, Louis," Liam says. The desperate relief in his voice makes Louis feel sick. "Are you okay? Is everything all right?"

"Sorry," Louis says, which isn't _hello_ or _yes_ or anything else instead. His throat feels dry.

There's a long silence.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm just at home," Louis says, and his hand is sweaty where he's holding his phone. He doesn't know why he's so nervous, when it's just _Liam_. Liam, who had turned up in halls last year with a lot of curly hair and a terribly shy expression, and who had been so grateful to be invited out to the pub with them that Louis had decided within two seconds of meeting him that he had to be theirs. They'd bickered for the remainder of fresher's week, and then Liam had stopped looking desperately hurt every time Louis had tweaked his nipple, and that had been that.

"How's things?" Liam asks awkwardly.

Louis wants to laugh at that. "Shit," he says. "It's so fucking shit I don't know what to do with myself."

"Lou—"

"It's all right," Louis says.

"Have you really been talking to Nick?"

"A bit," Louis says.

"But you didn't even text us?"

Louis sort of wants to cry. The fact that he isn't right now is almost bewildering. "It's easy to talk to him," he says. "It's not that he doesn't matter, it isn't. It's just—" He doesn't know how to explain it. Talking to Nick feels safe in a way that talking to the lads isn't. There's less riding on the conversations. The idea of talking to Nick isn't terrifying. Louis doesn't understand it either. "The doctor says I've got depression."

"I know," Liam says. "Why didn't you tell any of us how you were feeling?"

"None of you were there. You were never there."

"I don't understand," Liam says. "I don't get any of it. I don't know how you got so sad."

"I don't know either. Everyone keeps going on and on about how sad I was but I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel anything. Just really lonely all the time. Like I couldn't breathe."

"You weren't lonely," Liam says. "You had all of us. You've got loads of friends. It wasn't like you didn't have friends."

Louis doesn't say anything for a bit. There's nothing to say. He knows that it's stupid. He knows Liam didn't have any friends at school, and that would have been a justifiable reason for Liam to get depressed, but Liam didn't. It was just Louis who did. It was just Louis who'd messed up a good thing.

"I've been reading this leaflet," Liam says after a while. "I found it on the internet earlier. I printed it out."

"Right," Louis says. Normally he'd tease Liam for this kind of Google searching, just like he's been doing for the last eighteen months, but he can't find the energy. There's a big part of him that just wants to keep his knees drawn up to his chest and pull the duvet up over his head until it all goes away.

There's the sound of rustling papers. "I don't understand it," Liam says. "I've been reading it and I don't understand it, because I don't get why you didn't tell us you were feeling like this."

"Liam—"

"Persistent sadness," Liam reads out. "Avoiding others and becoming isolated and lonely. Undue feelings of guilt and worthlessness. Is this what you meant when you said you felt like you didn't matter?"

"What are you even reading?" Louis asks. He's embarrassed and ashamed, and he doesn't know how to explain any of this, and he definitely doesn't want to be talking about any of it. There's the objective side of his head, which knows that some of these things are irrational, but the loudest voice in his head is the one that's telling him it's perfectly reasonable to feel these things. That's telling him it's right for him to feel like this, that he really isn't good enough, that he really isn't worth anything. That his friends don't want him around.

"There are times when we all feel sad, hopeless or fed up; it's part of life. Depression is different. With depression these feelings don't just go away. They can last for months, becoming so intense that carrying on with everyday life can become impossible," Liam reads, a little laboriously.

"Liam, please."

"I'm trying to understand," Liam says, and his voice sounds tight. "I'm trying to understand why you never told us you were feeling like this. You're our best friend and you kept it all hidden, and I don't understand."

"It's embarrassing, innit," Louis says finally, quietly. "I'm ashamed of it."

"Ashamed of what?" Liam asks. "I don't get why you wouldn't have told us. This list says thinking about suicide and death. You haven't—you wouldn't think that, right?"

"No," Louis says. "I mean—no."

"Louis—"

"I thought about going to sleep and waking up when it had all stopped hurting. That's not the same thing, though."

"God," Liam says, and he sounds choked up. "God, Lou."

"It hurts so much," Louis says. "My head hurts so much. It makes everything hurt so much."

"Swear to me," Liam says. "Swear to me you won't hurt yourself. Promise me."

Louis can't help but glance down at his wrist, at the scabbed-over scratch across his tattoo, at the red lines from where he's been scratching today. He hadn't even noticed himself doing it, but the marks are there. He can't get over that. God. "I don't want to die," he says softly, and Liam chokes on a sob at that.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Liam asks. He's crying. "We could have helped."

"Because it's me that's wrong," Louis says. There's a dull sort of helplessness enveloping him; Liam is crying because of _him_ , and Louis is powerless to stop it. He's powerless to stop the way he keeps hurting people: his mum, his sisters, his friends. "Because there must have been something that I did that made you all not want to do any of the stuff we used to do any more, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I kept trying, but it felt like I was always, like, five steps behind you all. Like you'd moved on and I was just where I always was."

"It wasn't like that at all, though," Liam says.

"But that's how it felt. And it was like that. It was."

"Lou—"

"I wanted to go to the pub," Louis says, "and I wanted to play football, and I wanted to stay in and watch films and eat pizza, and I wanted to have hangover breakfasts in the pub, and I wanted to have birthday parties for us all, and I couldn't make any of you want any of it. I don't know what I did to make you not want it. We did it last year."

"God," Liam says. "Louis."

"My head's a fucking mess," Louis says. "I can't stop fucking crying." He's only cried once since yesterday, but it's been so constant for so long now that he's going to let it pass for now. "I get that wanting all of that is unreasonable. I get it. But still. I know you have Sophia. I'm not trying to ruin any of that. I just—I don't know, okay. I just wanted there to be time for me, too, you know? That's what I wanted."

"Louis."

"I know it's fucked up," he says. "I know it's needy. I've tried to stop, all right. I've tried not to need people so much but I can't make it go away."

"Swear to me you won't hurt yourself," Liam says. "Swear to me."

"God," Louis says. "It's not about that. It's never been about that. It's about how fucked up I am. It's not about whether I want to hurt myself or not."

Liam doesn't say anything for the longest time.

"Liam?"

"I've got to go," Liam says abruptly. "I can't—I've got to go."

Louis is left staring down at the phone in his hand.

After a minute, he gets to his feet and goes upstairs to hide in bed again. Maybe everything will go the fuck away if he pulls the duvet over his head for long enough.

~*~

His phone rings ten minutes later, but it isn't Liam. It's Harry.

"Liam's crying," Harry says, instead of hello. "He's crying because he thinks you're going to hurt yourself, and I can't, I can't—"

"I'm not going to hurt myself," Louis says, and he has to physically hold onto the duvet to stop himself from scratching at his arm. "I'm not suicidal and I don't want to die. Tell him that."

"Lou—"

"It's not the same," Louis says. "I want it to stop fucking hurting. I want to wake up and for it not to fucking hurt. That's not the same thing."

"Tell your mum," Harry says. He sounds like he's crying too, and Louis hates this. He _hates this_. "Please, Louis. Tell your mum."

"There's nothing to tell," Louis says, but his chest feels like it's getting tighter. "I swear, there's nothing to tell."

"Liam's locked himself in the bathroom," Harry says. "God, we're all scared."

"I promise," Louis says. "I swear to you. I swear to God. You don't need to worry."

"We don't need to worry. Fuck, Louis, you have no idea. You've been gone since Saturday and you didn't even text us until last night. We've been worried sick."

And Louis just _can't_. He can't. "I feel like I've messed up everything in my whole life. Please, please don't give me something else to tear myself to pieces over. I just—I don't think there's any room for anything else."

"Louis."

"I don't know how to be someone you want around," he says, and his voice cracks. "I don't know what I did wrong. I don't know what to do. I don't know what the fuck to do."

"God," Harry says. "You don't have to be anyone for us. You didn't do anything wrong. Please don't think that you did."

"I did, though," Louis says. "I must have, because you all stopped. You all went off and, like, moved the fuck on without me, and I don't know what I did. I don't know what everyone has that I don't, and I don't know what to say to any of you. I don't know what to say, and I miss you so much, and it hurts. It hurts. It hurts, Haz."

"I'm so sorry," Harry says. "I'm so sorry you ever felt like we didn't want you around. We all love you. All of us. I'm pretty sure Nick's half in love with you."

"Don't joke," Louis says. "Please don't joke. I've lost my best friends and you're joking with me."

"You haven't lost us," Harry says. "You couldn't. And I'm not joking. I swear."

"But you are," Louis says. "Please don't. Please." He's never had to beg before and he never wants to do it again. It feels like the words are being wrenched out of his throat. It feels raw. He'd never had a friend like Harry before; they'd been close from the first time they'd met. Louis had been stupid enough to call him his brother from another mother, one drunken evening that first term in hall. Harry had plastered himself to Louis' side and kissed his temple, and Louis had been stupid enough to think that this friendship—these friendships—were the most important he was ever going to have.

"What can I do?" Harry asks. He sounds broken too. "What can I do if you won't even believe what I'm telling you?"

"I don't know," Louis says. He really doesn't. "Mum says that this voice in my head telling me I'm not good enough is shouting really loud."

"It probably is," Harry says. "But it still isn't the truth."

"It feels like the truth."

"It isn't. It's lying to you."

Louis lets out a breath. He sprawls out on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. "You don't need to worry about me doing something stupid," he says finally.

"If I go and get Liam out of the toilet and tell him that, are you going to hang up then not talk to us for another fuck knows how long?"

"It's hard, knowing what to say. It feels like everything I say is useless. Pointless. Like, you don't want to hear this shit."

"Lou—listen, all right? We love you. You're our best friend. We want to know."

"You should go and rescue Liam from the toilet. He'll be all blobby and snotty. You know what he's like when he cries. It's like he turns into a Golden Retriever."

It's almost enough to make Harry laugh. It's not enough to make Louis smile.

"You're my best friend," Harry says finally. "That's not going to change."

"All right," Louis says, and when they've said good bye, he stays where he is, staring up at the ceiling.

Harry's text message comes five minutes later. It just says, _promise me you'll tell your mum xx_

Louis can't. He _can't_.

He finds Nick's name in his phone and presses call.

"They all think I'm going to kill myself or something," Louis says, when Nick answers the phone. "I can't make them stop going on about it."

There's a pause. "You're not, are you?"

"No," Louis says. "I've never once wished I wasn't here. I wish it would all go away, but it isn't the same thing, and I can't make them listen."

"They're scared," Nick says. "They're just worried about you."

"I can't cope with anything else," Louis says. "I can't deal with my mum trying to keep me busy every hour of the day, and my sisters being scared of even talking to me, and not knowing why you keep talking to me, and the fact I'm probably going to get chucked out of uni. I can't deal with all of that and them all assuming I need to be on fucking suicide watch or something as well."

"There's not—there isn't any reason why they might think any of that, is there?" Nick asks. "About you hurting yourself, or whatever."

"Not you as well."

"I promise I won't go on about it," Nick says.

"I want to still be alive," Louis says, and he can't fucking believe his life has got to this point. "I want to be alive. I just want to be alive and for it not to hurt anymore, and I don't understand why that isn't an okay thing to want. I don't understand why it's so unreasonable. Why people are scared of me wanting it."

"I wish it didn't hurt anymore, too," Nick says. "But you can—you can understand what that might sound like, right? You wanting it not to hurt anymore."

"Yeah, like I wish I wasn't fucking mental," Louis says. "I don't know how I'm supposed to tell people how I'm feeling if they just keep going on about how I'm fucking suicidal, when I'm not."

"When I first met you," Nick says carefully, "you were one of the most alive people I've ever met. It fucking—I don't know—shone out of you in waves, how alive you were. You're that person that people look at in a crowd. You're that person that I look at whenever you're in a room. You drive me mad some of the time, but I fucking loved it when you paid attention to me."

"Nick—"

"That's what they're so scared of. That's what we're all so scared of, that that bit of you is missing and we don't know how to get it back. They hate that they let you down. I hate that I let you down, and we weren't even close. That it got this bad and we didn't notice earlier. That's what this is about."

"I don't know what to do," Louis says, and he doesn't. He doesn't know how to fill the rest of his day or plan the rest of his week or deal with the rest of his life. Everything's so huge and daunting and terrifying that he can't bear to deal with any of it, not even a little bit of it. "Like, what am I supposed to do, Nick? What the fuck am I supposed to do?"

"You mean, like, today?"

Louis tries to laugh. He's still shaky from his conversation with Liam and Harry. "This is the second time I've got back in bed today. I watched _Lorraine_ earlier. I hate it, and I don't know what to do."

"Oh, Lou."

"My mum made me this list," Louis says. "It's on the fridge. It's in different coloured felt tips. I feel like a stupid dickhead who can't even look after himself."

"What's on it?"

"Dunno. Cleaning stuff. Buying a Christmas tree."

"The cleaning sounds pretty terrible, but the tree part isn't that bad, is it?"

"I've got to go outside," Louis says. It's the bit he hasn't admitted to, this terrible kind of fear that's rooted itself deep in his chest. This anxiety that flutters inside of him.

"Only for a bit," Nick says. "You have your mum's car, don't you? Where do you normally get the Christmas tree from?"

"Don't know." He thinks for a minute. "There's a garden centre we went to once, I think. And a farm, I think, too. There's some outside the supermarket too. But I've got the car."

"Well, then. You could go and get the Christmas tree, right? Cross that one off the list."

"Will you talk to Harry? Tell him he doesn't need to worry about me killing myself." He doesn't mention the welts on his wrist. He scratches one of them, then fists his hand into the duvet. 

"All right," Nick says. "But I don't know if he'll listen to me. You get the Christmas tree and I'll tell Harry you're doing okay."

It doesn't feel much like okay, but maybe everything's relative. "What are you up to today?"

Nick laughs. "Got an essay due tomorrow at five. I'm supposed to be going to the library but I'm just eating a baked potato."

"Nice."

"Warm, at least. I'm going to look like a baked potato at this rate. Or a baked bean. Aimee still won't let us have the flipping heating on during the day. At least the library's warmer. Hope you like boys that look like baked potatoes."

"They're my favourite kind," Louis says, and the frantic beating of his heart isn't entirely down to the anxiety this time.

"That's good," Nick says. There's a pause. "Look, I'm going to be in the library later. I'll be on chat if you want to talk."

"Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"I've got the concentration span of a gnat," Nick says. "You'll be doing me a favour."

"Text me your email address, then."

"Will do. Send me a picture of this tree, won't you? We've got a silver one that Aimee and Gillian are decorating with laminated pictures of Tom Selleck."

"Nice."

"Yeah," Nick says. "Go on. If you need to, you can call, all right? I'll come out of the library."

"Nick—"

"If you need to, okay?"

"You're too fucking nice to me."

Nick laughs at that. "Maybe I just think you're worth being nice to."

Louis doesn't understand that, but he's not going to say it. "Thanks," he says.

"No worries. Go on, go and get your tree."

"I'll talk to you later, then." He's not entirely sure when this became a thing that they did, but it feels like the one good thing in his life at the moment.

Louis looks down at his lap. _Okay_. He can do this.

~*~

He buys a seven foot Nordmann fir, and has a bollocks of a job getting it in the house. It's too tall for the doors and he ends up swearing like a don't-know-what, jabbing himself in the face and the side, knocking two pictures off the wall, and tripping over the coffee table. Then he has to up-end half the shed to find the Christmas tree stand, and he's only just making a vague attempt at getting it upright when his mum gets home from work. The benefit to working earlies is that she gets home early afternoon.

"Is that a Norwegian?" she asks, putting her bag down on the sofa and taking off her coat and scarf.

"It's a Nordmann fir," he says, giving it a bit of a poke to see if it falls over. It wobbles, but stays standing. At least this one small thing he can count as a success. One thing, in the relentless festering pit that's been the last few weeks of his life. "I thought you were going to text me so I could pick you up?"

"Anna gave me a lift home. It's a nice tree. The girls are going to be really pleased."

Louis sits down onto the sofa. "I didn't do anything else," he says. "Off your list, I mean."

She comes to sit down next to him. "What have you been doing all day, then?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. Hiding. Spoke to Liam and Harry earlier. They think I'm going to kill myself. Then I spoke to Nick."

Her hand stills on his shoulder. "Don't joke about that," she says. "Don't ever joke about that. I don't think I could—" She stops, and draws in a ragged breath. "If you weren't here it would do more than just break my heart, all right? I can't even think about you not being here. I don't know what I'd do without you. I don't know what any of us would do without you. Your sisters look up to you so much. They adore you. We all do."

"I'm not going to," he says, even though there's a part of him that can't believe his family could still love him the same way they used to. "I don't even want to. I couldn't get them to believe me."

She lets out a breath. "Let me see your wrist."

Louis pulls his sleeves down over his hands. "Mum."

"I know you've been hurting yourself, baby."

"I don't mean to," he says. "I don't even notice I'm doing it. It's not a thing."

"I think it might be," she says, stroking her thumb over the inside of his wrist, nudging his sleeve up. "You're scratching yourself. Look, you've made yourself bleed."

He tries to pull his sleeve down over his wrist again. His heart's pounding. "It's not a big deal."

"This tattoo's new since the summer," she says. "Is it birds?"

He nods. It's stupid, the tattoo. He's stupid for having wanted it so much. He's stupid because it meant something to him, and he'd been wrong. He pulls his sleeves further down over his hands, so that just the tips of his fingers are showing. His hands are sweating.

"There are five of them," she says. "Does that mean something? Did you get it for your friends?"

"No," he says, too sharply, too quickly. He can't bear to admit to this; it feels like he's tearing open his chest and revealing the weakness inside. The stupidity. His breath feels tight in his throat. "It's not—it doesn't mean anything."

"You always scratch in the same place," his mum says. "Look. What did that poor bird on the end ever do to you?"

He blinks away tears. "I shouldn't have got it," he says. "It was stupid. I just thought—I thought it meant something. The five of us. I was so stupid. I'm always so stupid."

"You're not stupid, Lou; you're never stupid. We can fix this, love. I printed off some leaflets at work. They're in my bag. I'll make us a cup of tea in a minute, and you can have a read of them, if you'd like."

"I'm not slicing my wrists open or anything. It's just—look. It's scratches. It's not even proper. Lisa Mackenzie used to cut her legs with a razor. Remember when everyone found out in year eleven?"

"Louis, love. I don't care about Lisa Mackenzie."

"You wouldn't be saying that if she'd offed herself." His chest feels tight.

"Stop changing the subject. This is about you. It doesn't have to be a razor blade to count as self-harm. This counts. You're hurting yourself."

"It doesn't count," he says, and he keeps looking down at his lap. He can't look at her, can't bear to see her face. He hates this. It feels like it's bubbling up inside of him, this anger and fear and distress, and he doesn't know what to do with any of it. "I'm not—I don't do that."

"Does it feel like you're punishing yourself when you do it? Does it feel good, knowing that you're hurting yourself? Like it's something you deserve?"

"I don't do that," he says again. His voice sounds high and raw and unfamiliar. "I don't know why you keep going on about it. What, you want me to be even more mental than I was before?"

"Louis, of course not."

He shakes her hand off. "It feels like it. I'm not that mental, all right?"

"Just read the leaflets, see if anything clicks for you. We can talk about it afterwards—"

"No." It feels like he's about to explode, like he can't breathe, like his chest is constricting and expanding all at the same time, but there's still no air. "I'm not—I don't—" He can't fucking breathe. His mum suddenly feels a long way away. His ears are ringing and his breath comes in short wheezes that he can't get a handle on. His hands are sweating. "Mum—"

"It's okay, love," she says, and she goes down on her knees in front of him, circling his wrists with her hands. "You're panicking."

"Can't breathe," he manages. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest.

"Yes, you can," she says. "You're going to be fine. You're having a panic attack."

It feels like he's going to faint. He can't get air into his lungs; this is how he's going to die.

"You're going to be fine," his mum says. She sounds a long way away, although he can feel her squeezing his hands. "You're panicking."

He's not hurting himself on purpose. He hates this, being mental. It's not fair. None of this is fair, and he can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe. "Can't—breathe—" he manages. His throat feels like it's closing up on him.

The front door goes then, opening and then slamming again, the house filled with the chatter of his sisters.

"No," Louis tries. "No, no."

His mum nods. She's blurry. "Fizzy," she calls. "Take the twins upstairs."

"Is the Christmas tree up?" Fizzy asks, half-running into the room, the twins following.

"Felicité," his mum says, never taking her eyes off Louis, who can't fucking breathe. He's sucking in great breaths of air, but it's like he's hiccupping after every breath, and it hurts. "Take the twins upstairs. You can see the Christmas tree later."

"What's wrong with Louis?" Fizzy sounds scared.

"Go upstairs," his mum says. "I'll come up in a bit."

Louis is crying now, ashamed and upset and humiliated and scared. He's aware of his mum's hands in his, but he can't stop shaking. He doesn't know if his sisters are gone or not.

"You're hyperventilating, love. Try and breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth. In through your nose, out through your mouth." She keeps saying it, over and over, slow and measured, and it seems like the hardest thing in the world to just focus on her instead of the desperation in his head. His chest still feels like it's closing in on him.

"That's right, Louis. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

It feels like an awful lot later when he starts to focus in again on his hands in his mum's, on the carpet beneath his feet, on his mum's tired, worried face.

"There we go," his mum says. "There we go, love."

"Mum—"

She gets up off her knees then, sitting on the settee next to him and then wrapping an arm around his shoulders. She rubs his arm. "All over now," she says, kissing the top of his head. "Nothing to be scared of now."

He hides his face in her shoulder. He still feels sick and panicky and like there are a hundred butterflies in his stomach and his lungs, flapping around and making him tremble. He feels like he's going to throw up. "What was that?"

"It was a panic attack," she says. "You got yourself all het up. It's all right now, though." She rubs his shoulder again. "Lottie, love, will you put the kettle on and do us a cup of tea? And bring your brother a glass of water and a digestive."

He looks up. He hadn't even realised Lottie was there, but she's standing in the doorway, pale and upset.

"Is Louis all right?" she asks, not moving. It's like he's not even there.

"He'll be fine. He just got himself a bit upset, but it's all fine. Be a love and put the kettle on, Lots." She's still rubbing his shoulder. 

"Sorry," he says, his voice low. He sounds rough. "Sorry, sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," she says, still hugging him, like he isn't a total fucking mentalist. "How are you feeling now?"

"Sick," he says. "Rubbish. Shaky."

"We'll have a nice, quiet rest of the day, how about that?"

"That'll never happen here." Louis isn't entirely sure that he's up to joking yet, but he knows his family. He's still not entirely sure he's not going to throw up.

His mum smiles. "We'll try it anyway."

He nods and looks down at his hands. At the scratches peeking out from underneath his sleeve. "It'd be better if that fifth bird wasn't there at all," he says, after a minute. "It's not supposed to be there."

She kisses his temple. "Love you," she says. "We'll sort all of this out, promise."

He nods again. He's fairly sure this is unfixable. He still feels like he can't breathe.

~*~

Lottie comes and sits by him later, when his mum goes up to see Fizzy and the twins.

"Are you all right?" she asks, offering him a digestive biscuit.

He shrugs. "Not really." He shoves his hands under his thighs. He doesn't want a biscuit, but she keeps nudging the packet into his arm, so he takes one just so she'll shut up.

"Does that happen a lot?"

He shakes his head. "No." He doesn't want to talk about it.

"Was it a panic attack? I've never seen one before."

"I don't know, all right. Don't you have homework to do?"

"It was properly scary, seeing you like that. You were wheezing like you were having an asthma attack, but you were all freaked out too."

"I don't want to talk about it." He shifts into the corner of the sofa, drawing his knees up to his chest. His tracksuit bottoms are all baggy at the knee. He wraps his arms around his calves.

"Were you scared?" she asks softly. He can't bear to look at her, but he can tell from the tone of her voice that she's upset. All he'd ever wanted to be was a good big brother, and now all he's managing is to freak them out. He's even failing at this.

He nods, unable to help himself, and she puts the biscuits down on the settee and tucks her hand into his.

~*~

He texts Harry later, from the privacy of his bedroom. The girls are all downstairs, decorating the Christmas tree, but he still feels miserable and rubbish and anxious and sick to his stomach. His mum had unplugged the DVD player from her bedroom and put it in Louis' room, so he's got her _Friends_ DVDs to keep him company. He doesn't want to go downstairs and pick anything from the shelves in the living room. Daisy and Phoebe and Fizzy had looked so freaked out when they'd come downstairs, and Louis had just felt like such a failure.

It hadn't taken him long to make his excuses and sneak upstairs.

_I really miss you_ , he texts Harry, his fingers trembling. He doesn't know what else to say. He can't text _I had a panic attack_ or _my mum thinks I'm self-harming and I don't know if I am or if I'm not_ or _I keep thinking about Nick and how good it was to kiss him_. He presses send instead.

Harry's reply is almost instantaneous. _I wish I knew how to make it better for you. Is there anything?_

_Dunno. I'm so mixed up._

_Do you want to talk? I'm just watching Coronation Street with Zayn. He says hi._

There's a flash of terrible, awful jealousy at the thought of Zayn and Harry, together without him. He's so, so rubbish.

_are you really watching it? i could phone afterwards. you could put Zayn on speaker with you_. His heart's pounding. When had it become so utterly, ridiculously impossible just to talk to his friends? He used to be the life and soul of the party, and now he can't even stomach ringing Harry up.

_We prefer you to Corrie every time. do you want us to ring you?_

He stumbles off the bed, goes to the loo, washes his face, and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks just like he always did; he recognises his reflection even if he doesn't recognise the inside of his own head. It's an odd kind of disconnect—the realisation that he looks just the same as he always had done, even though everything's changed. Can anyone even tell from looking that his brain is rebelling against him? Can anyone tell just by looking that there's a battle going on inside of him, and the winner is this quiet, scared, terribly, terribly sad boy that he doesn't even know?

He splashes his face with cold water again and dries it on a Disney Princesses towel before going back into the bedroom.

_You can ring me_ , he texts back, and then he puts his phone down on the pillow next to him, and waits.

It's less than a minute before his phone starts to ring. He stares down at the phone for the longest time, at Harry's name and his face flashing up on the screen. It shouldn't be this hard to answer the fucking phone. It definitely shouldn't be this hard to answer the phone to someone he used to consider his best friend in the world. 

Anxiety creeps across his skin again, tiny, fluttering moth's wings of indecision. By the time he presses answer, it's rung for so long that Louis' half-scared it will go to voicemail.

"Hi," he says finally. "Hi."

"Hiya, Lou," Harry says. "Hang on, I'm putting you on speaker." It sounds a bit crackly, and then Harry sounds a lot further away from the phone.

"Louis," Zayn says. "How are you doing, mate?"

"All right," Louis says. This time last week he was still at uni, still living in their house, still watching Corrie, but by himself with the house in silence. "You know."

"We all miss you," Zayn says. "The place isn't the same without you."

There's a large part of Louis that just wants to say, _are you sure?_ or _you didn't seem to want me around all that much when I was there_. He must wait a beat too long, because Harry fills the gap.

"What have you been up to, anyway?"

"Not much. Went and got the Christmas tree today. Got a huge one. Nearly decapitated myself and destroyed the house trying to get it into the living room."

"That's my boy," Zayn says. "Go for size over everything else."

Louis doesn't know how to react to anything that they're saying. It's so weird; it's almost like he's looking into the conversation from outside, and all he can see himself doing is trying to figure out how he's supposed to react to the things that they're saying to him. He doesn't know automatically, and that's scary. He'd just wanted it to go back to how it was before, something normal in his life where nothing's fucking normal, but it isn't. It's awkward. 

"Did you talk to your mum?" Harry asks, after a pause "You know, about, like..."

"For the last time," Louis says, and he can feel himself starting to panic again. "I'm not going to fucking kill myself, will you just leave it alone, please." His voice catches.

"Lou," Zayn starts. "God, we—" He sounds messed up. "We don't want to make things worse for you."

"Nick phoned me earlier," Harry says quietly. "He said you were upset we were asking you about it."

"I'm fine," Louis says. "I'm fine. Just stop going on about it. I can't deal with having to convince you guys that I'm not about to off myself, on top of everything else. The rest of it's bad enough, but I can't deal with all of that and this as well."

"Nick said we've got to trust you to tell us when things get bad, but, like—" Harry stops. "You didn't tell us before. You didn't tell us anything before, and we don't know what to do, and we're _worried_."

"You never asked," Louis says. "You never asked me if I was all right." It hurts to admit it out loud. He runs his fingertips over the tattoo of his five birds. There's a part of him that wants to dig his nails in to his skin to see the crescent marks. It's the first time he's registered the feeling at the same time as doing it; it's scary. It's scary to know that this was going on before, but that he hadn't even noticed he was doing it.

"If we ask you now, though," Zayn says slowly. "Will you tell us the truth?"

Louis swallows. He checks his nails. "I'm so ashamed," he says. "I'm such a fucking mess, and it's all in my head, and I hate that. It's so fucking humiliating, all of this. Everyone else copes with uni, and friends moving on, and shit. I hate that I can't. That I'm not."

"We want to help," Zayn says, "but we don't know how."

" _I_ don't know how," Louis says. "Like, I have no fucking idea how I'm supposed to stop feeling like this. I don't even know how I feel, let alone how to fix it."

"You'd tell us, though? If, like, things changed. If you did start wanting to, I don't know, die or something." Harry sounds so very careful.

Louis wants to cry out of sheer, desperate frustration. "I don't," he says. "And I don't know, if you asked if I was all right I supposed I'd try to tell you if I wasn't. Is that, like, enough?" He desperately, desperately wants it to be enough. "I just—I can't talk about this any more, all right? Everyone's always focusing on the wrong stuff. Do you know how much other shit is in my head, and all you're talking about is stuff that isn't? I can't, all right. There's all this other stuff, and you're just going on about this."

"Louis—" Zayn says. "We're sorry, all right. We're sorry."

"It's all right," Louis says. It isn't, but then nothing is.

"What other stuff?" Harry asks. "You can talk to us."

Louis remembers being able to tell Harry everything. He remembers being able to read Harry's mood just by looking at him. He remembers laughing over the stupidest shit that no one else understood. He and Zayn have matching _bus 1_ tattoos. He doesn't remember what it felt like to be that person. He's got no way of explaining any of that. "Mum keeps making me these to-do lists," he says instead. "Stupid lists every day to keep me busy when she's at work and the girls are at school."

"You hate lists," Zayn says.

"Yeah," Louis says. "But I hate the inside of my head even more. It's so fucking quiet here by myself. I just end up hiding in my bedroom." It's embarrassing even admitting it. Everything's an exercise in humiliation at the moment.

"You can ring us, you know," Harry says. "Like, anytime. Nick says you've been talking to him."

It used to be easy to talk. He never even had to think about it. Now everything's just an effort. It's an effort to get out of bed, and Louis has no fucking idea how he's supposed to get on with the rest of his life. It's like his future's been reduced down to this tiny minuscule blob of nothingness, and he's suspended in it with no way out.

Zayn clears his throat. "Is it better? Being at home?"

"Sort of," Louis says, after a while. "It's not, like, so in my face all the time." He doesn't mention the rest of it, the parts that have been thrown into sharp focus by him being at home.

"Maybe a rest is just what you need, you know?"

Louis doesn't say anything to that. At Harry and Zayn's end, he hears the front door go, and Niall yell _hello_. All of a sudden, there's an ache in his stomach from missing them all, and Niall in particular. Niall, who was always optimistic and bright and gentle and happy. Louis' skin itches. "Can I say hi to Niall?" he asks, and why he feels shy about it, he has no idea. But maybe if he could understand what was going on inside his head then he wouldn't be in this mess anyway.

"Course," Harry says. "I'll get him. _Niall._ Niall—Louis' on the phone. He wants to speak to you."

When Niall swipes the phone, he turns it off speaker and immediately sounds about a hundred miles nearer to Louis than Harry and Zayn had.

"Hiya," Niall says. "No, shut up, Harry. I want to talk to him privately." Louis can hear him shut the living room door, and there's a pause before he talks again. "How's things?"

"Oh, you know," Louis says. "Still completely fucking mental, same old, same old."

"You're not mental, Lou," Niall says. Louis listens as another door opens and shuts. He's not sure where Niall is in their house now, and that's weird too, like it's another wall of separation between him and his friends. "Don't talk crap about yourself."

"Feels like I am," he says, a little moodily. His prescription says he is. He wishes everyone wasn't pretending he wasn't mental. He draws his knees up to his chest and wiggles his toes. He doesn't know how to apologise for everything's that happened. He wishes he could. He's so sorry he's a fuck up. He just can't get the words out.

"I don't know whether you wanted me to just join in with your conversation with the others, or what, but I just wanted to tell you, away from the lads how fucking sorry I am. For everything, but for screwing up your birthday party, mostly."

It takes Louis a moment to realise that Niall is apologising to _him_.

"Doesn't matter," Louis says, even though it does. It still hurts so much. He's still fairly sure that he should be the one apologising; he definitely doesn't want to talk about this.

"It does, though. We dropped the ball. We all feel really bad about it. The last thing any of us wanted to do was to hurt you."

"I know," Louis says quickly. He'd like it if they never drew attention to the fact that he'd been so easily forgotten; that would make things about a million times easier to bear. He just wants Niall to shut up. "It's fine."

"It isn't," Niall says. "Just—Lou, all right, we fucking love you. You're our best fucking mate and we totally fucked up. I don't know why we didn't remember it."

The voice in Louis' head is telling him why they didn't remember: because he's forgettable, and worthless, and because he doesn't matter. He can't shut the voice up. "It's all right."

"It's not, but like, have you talked to Liam? He's tearing himself into pieces over all of this. He's the one that always remembers birthdays and stuff. He feels so bad."

"I talked to him a bit this morning," Louis says. "And _you_ always remember birthdays." Niall always remembers stuff like that. He's always the first person on Twitter and Facebook saying _happy birthday_.

"But it's his thing, you know?" Niall makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "He prides himself on that stuff. I know he's probably saying the wrong thing, but he's, like, driving himself crazy. He's reading all this stuff online. He's been to the Counselling Service to get all these leaflets."

Liam always goes overboard. Louis doesn't know how to tell Niall to tell Liam not to bother. "It's not like it was my real birthday, or anything."

"It still mattered," Niall says. "And I'm still sorry. We all are. We feel like shit about it."

Louis doesn't say anything for a long minute. He can hear Niall breathing down the phone. He takes a deep breath. "It just—I felt like I was forgettable, anyway. It just made me believe it for the first time."

"Louis." Niall sounds appalled. "God, Lou."

"I was counting on it so much," Louis says, and all of a sudden he can't stop himself from talking. "I kept getting all these shit marks, and the house was always fucking empty, and I just wanted, I don't know—" He doesn't know how to finish what he's saying. "I wanted to be good at something," he says finally. "I thought I was good at being friends with you lot, but it turns out I wasn't, because I was shit at that, too."

"I'm so, so sorry," Niall says. "Christ, Lou. I'm sorry."

"I had a panic attack earlier." He doesn't know why it had been so impossible to admit that to Harry and Zayn, but relatively easy to say it to Niall.

"I don't really know what one of those is," Niall says. He still sounds upset. "But they sound pretty shit."

"It's like—" Louis doesn't know how best to say any of this. "Me and Mum were having this conversation and I freaked the fuck out. Like, I couldn't breathe. I suppose it was like an asthma attack or something, but I was just panicking. I thought I was going to, like, pass out or die or something. My mum kept telling me to calm down, and she was holding my hands but it was like I wasn't there. I was just, I don't know, somewhere really terrifying. My chest felt like it was closing in on me." He rests his cheek against his knee. "Now try saying I'm not mental."

"Sounds fucking shit, Lou."

"It was pretty shit." Louis agrees, fiddling with his sock. "Can we talk about something else? I don't want to think about this. I fucked it all up, let's draw a line under it. Just—come on, Nialler. Make me fucking laugh, or something. Please."

"What about Nick, then?" Niall asks, after a pause. "Can we talk about him? Harry says you've been talking to him a lot. Did you really shag him that night?"

"Yes," he says. "I really did have sex with Nick that night."

"I'm not being funny, but who knobbed who?"

" _Niall_ ," Louis says, and he laughs, hand to his eyes. "God."

"Oh, come on," Niall says, and he sounds pleased, like that's the reaction he wanted. "Like I wasn't going to ask."

Louis laughs again. He hasn't laughed for ages. Coming so soon after blurting out his feelings about the party, it should feel like there's at least some kind of disconnect, but everything feels strange at the moment. He has to try at everything, and he wishes he didn't. "Niall."

"How was the action? Do hipsters do it differently? I thought you thought he was a total wanker."

"I did," Louis says. "I do. I don't know." He's not laughing any more. "I think I really like him, Nialler."

"Lou—like, _like_ him, like him?"

"I don't know, all right. I don't know. Why would he like someone who's totally fucked up, though? I'm not even going to uni anymore. It's all a load of rubbish. Why would he want someone like me?"

"Harry reckons he's been half in love with you for ages," Niall says. He sounds quiet again, and sort of sad. Louis can't get a handle on how he's supposed to be reacting to anything, this whole phone conversation.

There's a dull sort of ache in Louis' chest. "If that was true," he says, "then it's not going to still be true now, is it? Not with everything."

"But you've been talking to him, right? That's what Harry said."

"Yeah," Louis says.

"Quite a lot, yeah?"

"Suppose."

"Well, then," Niall says. "Seems like it might still be true."

"I don't know," Louis says. "I can't be sure of anything right now. How am I supposed to work this out on top of everything else?"

"Don't, then. He's not asking you for anything, is he? If he is, we'll go round and I'll get Liam to rough him up."

"He's not asking me for anything." Louis makes a face. "He's just—he's nice to me. I didn't know he was like that. I don't know why he's still being nice to me."

Niall doesn't say anything for a minute. "If he's anything like the rest of us, he'd just like it if you were all right."

"Suppose." Louis doesn't know what to say. He wishes he did. He's not all right and he might never be. He knows that no one wants him when he's like this. It hurts. "Are you all right?" he asks finally, when the gap's gone on too long. He scrabbles for something normal to say, to cover up how he's feeling. "How's things?"

"It's weird, you know?" Niall says. "The house is weird without you."

"We barely saw each other." Louis can't help himself. The sharp bits he tries to hide keep on revealing themselves at moments where he'd least like them to. "I barely saw anyone. The house can't be fucking weird without me."

"I'm so, so sorry," Niall says.

"Don't be. Really. There's nothing that said you had to keep things the same. It's not your fault that you wanted something different to me. Seriously. This isn't your fault. It's no one's fault but mine."

"Lou—"

"I'm sorry." Louis cuts him off. "I'm sorry, all right. I don't mean to be like this. I hate it. I go over and over it afterwards. Beat myself up for it."

Niall lets out a breath. "If you came back, we'd figure all of that out. Like, if you're worried about all of this. We'd work it out. So you wouldn't feel like that again."

Louis can't imagine not feeling like this. He can't remember it ever stopping; it's always been there, frustration and jealousy and need burning deep beneath his skin. It's only recently that it's hovered closer to the surface, and even more recently that he hasn't been able to hide it from everyone else.

He wishes he could. He's suddenly exhausted. "I should go."

"Not like this," Niall says. "Don't feel bad, come on. It's fine."

"It's not fine, though, is it?" Louis digs his fingers into his duvet. He feels hot. "It was so awkward with Harry and Zayn, before. I don't know what to say to any of you anymore. Liam thinks I'm going to kill myself and won't listen when I say I won't ever do that. And you want to fix things for me and I don't fucking know how. It's in my head and I don't know how to make that better, and I know you all want it to magically fix itself so I'm okay, but I don't how to do that. Everyone wants me to be better, and I don't know how. I don't fucking know how." He can feel the panic rising in his chest again—that bitter taste at the back of his throat, the slight catch to his breath. "Everyone wants me to be better, but what if this is it? What happens if this is just _it_?"

"Louis," Niall says. "Louis, come on." He sounds a bit panicked himself, but Louis can't cope with that as well as this.

"Like this I'm terrible," Louis says, "and I know it, but what if this is it?"

"God," Niall says. "Louis."

"I don't want to be awful, but I don't know how not to be."

"You're one of the best friends I've ever had in my life," Niall says. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ever made you felt like that wasn't true."

Louis nods. The panic is still there in his chest, like something is sitting on him and making it hard to breathe. "All right," he says. "I should go."

"Call me whenever," Niall says. "Call any of us. We don't care that you're poorly."

"Okay," Louis says, but it isn't fine. None of this is fine. "I'll talk to you later. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Niall's saying, but Louis is already hanging up.

He drops his phone down onto the bed next to him, and buries his face in his hands. _God_.

~*~

His mum comes to find him later on, bringing him an egg custard in its little silver foil case. "How are you doing?"

"Fucking everything up," he says, shrugging. He puts on his best _Pinky and the Brain_ voice. "The same thing we do every night, Pinky."

She smiles at him, her face a little sad. "Do you want to come down and help with the Christmas decorations? There's still the Nativity to put up, and the tree isn't finished. I'm letting the twins stay up a bit late in honour of Christmas Decoration Day."

He makes a face. "I don't know. They're probably having more fun down there without me." He's been listening to his sisters laughing and bickering and running about. Normally he'd hate being in his bedroom when there's other stuff going on in the house, but he can't bring himself to stand up.

His mum sighs and sits down next to him on the bed. His room smells. He's spent too long in here this week. "Those sisters of yours," she says, bumping her elbow into his, "they're downstairs right this minute asking if you'll come down and help them. They want to do this with you. They've missed you, love."

"But they saw me," he says, looking down at his lap. "Earlier, when I was—" He doesn't know how to say, _when I was having a panic attack_. "They'll think I'm a freak, or something."

"They love you," she says. "We all do."

"But it was weird," he says in a small voice. "It was scary. They'll be thinking all sorts."

"They won't," his mum says. "I talked to them."

He feels so ashamed. "What did you say?"

"That you were upset. That it was a panic attack."

He fiddles with his tracksuit bottoms. The knees really have almost given out. "Did you tell them why?"

"No, love," she says. "That's just for you and me at the moment."

He nods. "I don't feel very Christmassy." He loves Christmas, and he loves his birthday. This year he can't find the motivation for either. He doesn't know why he doesn't feel like he's a part of anything. "Do you think they'll still want me around if I never get better, and I'm like this forever?"

"Your sisters will always love you, Louis. We all will."

He hadn't meant his sisters. He nods anyway.

"Come down and join in for a bit. It doesn't have to be for long."

"All right," he says finally, although he doesn't feel like moving. "Suppose."

~*~

He manages almost an hour of being downstairs before he has to make his excuses and sneak back upstairs. His mum had winked at him as he'd left, mouthing, _well done_ to him as he'd disappeared back up the stairs with a cup of tea and a Penguin biscuit.

It doesn't feel like something _well done_. It feels like a failure, just like everything else.

There's a message on his phone from Nick that just says, _thought you were going to come on chat tonight?_

He'd forgotten. _Sorry,_ he sends back. _Sorry._

_Something better come up huh? Did you find a boy who didn't look so much like a baked potato? Xx_   
  
_Nah. It was just a day. Sorry._

_Do you want to talk? I'm just back from the library. Having a delicious tea of tinned macaroni cheese. Yum._

Louis gets changed into his pyjamas as he listens to Daisy and Phoebe complaining about having to go to bed, even though it's past their bedtime. He crawls into bed and pulls the covers up before reaching for his phone and scrolling down to Nick's name.

Nick answers on the second ring.

"Hiya," he says. "Couldn't resist the temptation of tinned macaroni cheese, huh?"

"Your macaroni cheese brings all the boys to the yard," Louis says, pulling up the duvet high.

"Oh yeah, baby," Nick says. "How was your day, then? What happened? I thought you were off to get a Christmas tree?"

Louis shrugs. "I did," he says. "Got a massive one and made a right fucking bollocks of getting it into the house." He takes a deep breath. "Then my mum came home and started talking to me about hurting myself, and then I had a panic attack."

There's quiet for a moment. "Louis—"

"I scratch myself," Louis says softly. "There's this bird on my wrist—well, there are five. But there's one that shouldn't be there. I try to scratch it off. Sometimes it bleeds."

"Does it hurt?" Nick asks, equally quietly.

"A bit," he says. "I didn't notice I was doing it."

"Can you stop?"

Louis burrows down deeper under the duvet. When he talks, it comes out all muffled and warm, huddled up close in his little blanket cave. "I don't know," he says. "I don't know."

"Oh, love," Nick says. 

"Then I had a panic attack," Louis says quickly, because he doesn't want to hear anyone else being sorry for him. "Like a proper one and everything. Couldn't breathe or anything. Thought I was going to die. My sisters think I'm a freak."

"Louis—"

"Bet you don't want to shag me any more, right?" He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to say any of it. 

"I'm probably always going to want to shag you," Nick says. "I've accepted that as a general state of being. You know. Wake up, want to kiss you. Go to sleep, want to kiss you." He pauses. "You know that's not why I'm doing this, right? Like, even if you never, ever want to kiss me again. I just want to be your friend."

Louis nods, even though Nick can't see him. "I think about kissing you a lot," he says. "Like, ever since we did it. I meant it, you know. When I said it was the nicest thing out of everything this term. But I'm such a mess. I don't know what you're asking me for and I don't know how to give it." He can feel himself getting het up again. 

"Hey," Nick says. "Hey, no, none of that. I'm not asking you for anything. Nothing at all."

"How can you still like me even though I'm this mental?" It's the question he hadn't wanted to ask, but he can't keep it locked up inside of him any longer. 

Nick laughs at that. "God," he says. "You don't get it. I think you're properly brilliant, Louis. You're like—you've got this gravitational pull, all right. You're the centre of all your friends. Harry says all the lads feel it too. What would Liam be like if you hadn't dragged him out with you last year? Or Zayn. And your matching tattoos?"

"How do you know all of this?"

"Because Harry's done a lot of talking, recently. But seriously, wasn't Liam, like, dead quiet when you pulled him under your wing? Harry says he didn't have many friends at school."

"He didn't have any," Louis says. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because you need someone to be your own personal _It's a Wonderful Life_ ," Nick says. 

"I've never seen it."

"Gillian made me watch it last year. This guy thinks he's worthless and this angel guy with a ridiculous name shows him all the good stuff he's done."

"Sounds rubbish."

"It was all right." Nick lets out a breath. "I know it sounds crap, but Harry's been telling me all about you. About how you look out for everyone. Do you really want to be a teacher?"

"Dunno," Louis says. "Not any more. And anyway, you can't be a mental teacher, can you? And I'm shit at English, it turns out. Don't know why I ever thought I could."

"Just, like, try telling yourself some of this good stuff when your brain's telling you you're not good enough."

Louis waits a beat before replying. "That voice is so loud it drowns out everything else. It's like there's no room for me to even remember I should be thinking something else. I don't know how to do it anymore."

"Yeah, all right. I suppose you're going to have to put up with me telling you this stuff all the time, then. And Harry, if you'll let him. And I bet the others, too."

"I can't ask you for that. I can't ask any of you for that. None of you need me being this fucking needy, god. Telling me all this shit all the time. After I've been awful."

"Tough luck, because we're doing it anyway."

"God." Louis wipes his eyes. He's not crying, but his eyes feel wet anyway. He hasn't felt quite so on the edge of tears the past day or so. "Can we talk about something else for a bit? I'm sick of talking about the inside of my head. It's a mess. How about you? How did your essay go?"

"All right. It was okay, I suppose. Think the content's all right. I'm crap at writing, though, it probably sounds like a load of old nonsense written down. They're always bollocking me when I get the marks back. My content's lost in all the waffle."

"I could—" Louis stops. "I could read it for you, if you'd like."

There's a pause. "Really?" Nick asks, in surprise. "You'd do that?"

"If you wanted me to. Can't promise I'll be any good, though."

"Better than me," Nick says. "Brilliant, someone who's actually good at English. My department will be so surprised they'll give me a first just for handing in something in full sentences. Can I email it to you? It's due tomorrow."

"Sure," Louis says, and his cheeks feel warm. "Are you sure you want me to?"

"Course I do. I'm shit at writing. My tutor's going to keel over in shock. Can I email it over?"

"Yeah," Louis says. "I'll do it now, if you'd like."

"Are you sure about this?"

Louis shrugs. He's already getting out of bed and going for his laptop. He feels sort of—engaged. He hasn't felt any particular interest in doing anything in a long time. "Yeah," he says. "I think I am."

~*~

Nick's essay title reads, _Critically Analyse The Main Theories of Leadership, And The Links Between Motivation And Leadership And Long Term Organisational Success_. Louis has little understanding of what that actually means, but he can at least make an attempt at tidying up the writing. Nick has good ideas, but he rambles on and on around them without ever focusing his thoughts. Louis' essays are probably just the same, but it's easier to point it out when it's someone else's writing. It takes him two hours to go through it, even though the essay is only two thousand, five hundred words long. By the time he emails it back, it's riddled with comments and tracked changes. 

He's quite enjoyed it, all things considered. The email he sends back says _Sorry :(((( lots of red pen :((((_

Nick sends him one back straight away that just says _you're the BEST. Now get some sleep xxx_

Louis goes to bed feeling quite proud of himself for a change. 

It's nice. 

~*~

The following day, he makes it to the supermarket in the morning, and buys stuff for chicken kievs for tea. He's hungry when he goes in, so he buys fish fingers too, and fresh bread and tartar sauce. He has a fucking incredible fish finger sandwich for his lunch, and texts a picture of it to Zayn, Niall, Liam and Harry with a message that says _fucking SICK lunch x_

Harry sends him one back of a plate of chips he's shaped into a smiley face. Niall sends him one back of a Subway sandwich that's practically overflowing with fillings. Liam's picture is of baked beans on toast, and Zayn sends him a message that says _FISH FINGERS ARE EVIL_ with a selfie attached with him frowning at the phone. Missing him is, just for a moment, a terrible ache in his chest. 

He spends a long time looking at his _bus 1_ tattoo after that. 

He goes to pick up Daisy and Phoebe from school in the afternoon, and it's freezing cold and miserable and wet out, so he huddles into his jacket in the playground as he waits for the end of the school day. He bundles each of them up into their scarves when they run out to see him, making sure they've both got their gloves on and they haven't forgotten their worksheets for homework and their lunchboxes. 

It's an odd kind of feeling, this success in his chest. He hides in his bedroom in the evening, watching his mum's _Friends_ DVDs, but Fizzy and Lottie sneak in to watch it with him, and Louis doesn't feel quite so much like a complete fucking failure when he realises he hasn't cried for a whole entire day. 

He texts Nick before he goes to sleep: _today was all right. first okay day in ages. hope you got the essay in in time._ He ends it with a _x_ , and hides his phone under his pillow so he doesn't have to hope for a reply. 

When he wakes up in the morning, there's one from Nick that just says, _i'm so fucking pleased xxx_

It makes him smile even before he's gone downstairs for Saturday morning breakfast with his mum. 

"Morning, love," she says, when he sleepily stumbles into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and tripping over his too-long tracksuit bottoms. She's putting the washing on, and there's already a basket of wet clothes waiting to be hung out on the rack. 

He puts the kettle on and then takes the wet washing over to the rack in the corner of the dining room to hang it out to dry. The tumble dryer had given up the ghost back in July, which had been okay when it was summer and they could dry their clothes outside, but is turning into a proper nightmare now it's actual winter. 

"You don't have to do that," his mum says, from the door. He's kneeling on the floor hanging a million almost identical socks over the bottom of the rack. 

"I'll get a job and buy you a tumble dryer," he says, without looking up. "That's the first thing I'll get."

"Oh, love," she says. "You flipping well won't."

"I will," he says. "Dunno what I'm going to do yet, but I'll get you a tumble dryer."

"I've got some money from your grandparents," she says. "I'm going to look in the Christmas sales, get one then. We can't keep on doing this all through winter. It's going to cost us the same amount in extra drying racks than it would in a dryer at this rate. But you're not going to contribute."

Louis hates feeling helpless. "What about Dad?" he asks. "Surely he could, you know, help out. It's his kids' clothes we're washing. Mostly. Well, not me. But everyone else."

"Your dad loves you," she says. "He brought you up."

It's not the same as blood, though. He hasn't been in contact with him in ages. He doesn't want to tell him he's failed. "You should still ask him. He'd help if he knew it was for the girls."

"He'd probably help anyway," she says, coming over and kissing the top of his head. "You're a good boy, Louis. We're all lucky to have you."

That makes his chest feel tight. He swallows down the _even like this?_ that's just on the edge of his tongue. "Where is everyone?"

"The twins have their swimming lessons, Lottie's out with her boyfriend, and Fizzy's upstairs. Why don't you come and have breakfast with me?" She hangs up some of the school uniforms. "It'll be nice, just the two of us. I've got at least five minutes before I have to get on with stuff."

"I'll help," he says. He rarely helps. He just doesn't know what to do with himself. He glances at her. "Do we have to talk about—anything?"

She glances at his wrist. "Not this morning, love. It'll just be you and me when we talk about it. Did you get a chance to read any of the leaflets, though? I left them on your bed."

He shrugs, hanging out tights over the radiator. He'd glanced at them. They're mostly geared towards people who actually hurt themselves though, burning and cutting and picking and hurting and banging their heads off walls. Louis can't quite connect the scratches on his wrist with the advice in the leaflets about all of those things. One of them is actually called _Cutting and Self Harm_. Even the way he hurts himself is second rate. 

"One of them said to go outside whenever I felt the urge," he says. "But half the time I don't even know I'm doing it." He gets one of his t-shirts out of the basket. "The people in those leaflets don't feel like me."

"Okay," she says. "Well, you and me will go through them, and we'll find the bits that work and we'll ignore the rest, all right?"

He shrugs. "All right."

"On Monday, when I'm back from work, but before the girls are back from school. We'll do it then."

Louis isn't looking forward to it. 

~*~

He stays up late on Sunday night, texting Harry, who had emailed him a link to the crossword in _The Independent_. Louis is terrible at crosswords and can't be bothered with them, but there's something about him and Harry both doing it at the same time that makes him want to give it a try. 

_Miss you_ , Harry texts, when Louis has finally capitulated and let Harry win. _I'm so sorry_. 

_It's alright_ , Louis texts back, and it isn't, but he doesn't feel quite so sharp-edged about it as he has done. 

The light's still on in his mum's bedroom when he gets up to go to the loo, so he creeps in, in case she's properly asleep. She's reading a Jilly Cooper novel, sat up in bed and wrapped in a giant, pink Snuggie. 

"I don't think I feel terrible," he says, and it sounds stupid, saying it out loud. "I think I feel not quite as awful. Like, still shit, but better than before."

"Happier?"

"I dunno," he says. "Maybe, just, like, a bit less horrible. A little bit less sad."

Her face relaxes into a smile. "That's good," she says, opening her arms up wide for a hug, her book forgotten. "That's really, really good."

It is. It really, really is.


	5. You're Not As Brave As You Were At The Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world's kept on turning without him, is the thing, and no one's told him how to deal with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my lovely betas, **turntlou, ofjustimagine** , and **teaspoon**. This chapter would be a lot more rubbish without you. ♥ ♥ ♥ Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own. 
> 
> Um, this is not the last chapter. I'm scared to say that the next chapter will be the last, as we all know how that's gone in the past, but there's at least a good chance the next chapter will be the last. Maybe. It's just taking longer to find an equilibrium for Louis than I anticipated. There's a reason this chapter is 10k longer than any of the previous ones. No new warnings for this chapter, but a lot of the earlier ones still stand. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's commented, and who has left me an [ask on Tumblr](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/ask), and has talked to me about their own experiences. Sorry this has taken so long, I rewrote it about nine hundred times.

The envelope is waiting on the mat when Louis gets back from the supermarket after dropping his mum off at work on Monday morning. It says _Mr Louis Tomlinson_ on the front, and has his university's logo in the bottom left of the envelope.

He shoves it at the back of the hall table, underneath a pile of junk mail that's probably been there for ages, and goes to make a cup of tea.

If his hands tremble as he fills the kettle, then at least there's no one there to see.

~*~

The letter's still there after he's made his lunch. It hasn't magically disappeared in the two hours he's ignored it, but then neither has the anxiety that's taken root in his stomach again, twisting and turning like he's on a fucking boat in a fucking storm and not safely hiding away in a thoroughly land-locked Doncaster. He's fairly sure that he's not supposed to feel this scared of a fucking letter, but he can't help it. He can't help the way he reacts to anything at the moment. His depression is like that friend he never agreed to and doesn't want, a deadweight he's carrying around everywhere, and isn't ever allowed to put down. 

The thing is: now it comes to it, he really, really doesn't want to be chucked out of uni, regardless of how badly he's fucked it all up. It's all right if _he_ knows he's not good enough, but he doesn't want everyone else to know too. It's embarrassing and humiliating, and just knowing that whatever is in that envelope could potentially be the end of everything is enough to make panic settle in his chest.

He needs to talk to someone before he chokes on it, but he doesn't know who. He can't always rely on Nick, it isn't fair, and anyway, Liam's the obvious choice for this kind of freak out; he's the one who does things by the book. He's the flip of the coin that's the heads to Louis' tails. 

Picking up the phone and actually calling him is hard. Too hard. It's easier to pick at his ham sandwich and tell himself that he'll do it after, but he feels sick and can't eat a thing.

It takes him another five minutes to work up the courage to actually phone. 

"Hey," Liam says, answering the phone after a few rings, his voice muffled. "Sorry, I'm just eating a chicken sandwich. Hang on."

"A Liam Special?" Louis asks. Liam makes fucking awesome chicken sandwiches. It's his thing; he adds pepper and lettuce and cucumber and other secret stuff in a magic combination, and he buys tiger bread specially in preparation. Louis had always secretly loved it when Liam made him lunch, and not just because he's lazy and likes it when people do stuff for him. They're really good sandwiches. It's Liam's own personal magic trick. 

"Just on Hovis, though," Liam says, after a moment. He sounds less like he's in the middle of chewing. Masticating. That's a word Louis used to find funny. "Or Tesco Value, whatever. Whatever was in the bread bin."

Even the mention of the bread bin is enough to make the jealousy that's taken permanent root in Louis' stomach flare up again. He hates this part of him: the fucked up part, the part that can't leave well enough. There's a part of him that wants to keep poking at it so that it hurts more. "I got a letter from uni," he says instead.

"What's it say?"

"Dunno," Louis says, doing his best not to sound like he's on the edge of panic. "Haven't opened it. Probably says I've been chucked out."

"It won't say that."

"It might," Louis says. "What else is it going to say? Congratulations on being a total fucking fuck-up, would you like a first?"

"It's probably not going to offer you a first," Liam says. Ever practical. Louis can practically hear him gearing up to talk again. "Why haven't you opened it?"

"'Cos I'm a giant fucking coward," Louis says. "How is everything? Everyone?" There's an ache inside his chest he just can't make go the fuck away.

"We're all right. Niall puked in the front garden last night. Harry fell asleep on the kitchen floor. He was half way through eating a sausage. We had them for tea last night. He must have got in and thought he fancied leftovers. Left the fridge open too, the idiot. Think the milk’s gone off now."

Louis nods. He can't bring himself to say anything. Last night he'd hugged his mum because he hadn't felt quite so much like everything was terrible. He'd thought that was an achievement. It doesn't feel like one today. There's a very large part of him that wishes he'd fallen asleep half way through eating a sausage too. He wants that back: getting wasted with his best friends, midnight feasts and waking up hungover. Cocksure and happy; it all feels so long ago. 

He scratches at his wrist, digging his nails in. 

At least he knows he's doing it now.

"Do you want to open it?" Liam asks hesitantly, after a while. "I'll stay on the phone if you want."

"I hate this," Louis says, tugging his sleeve down over his wrist. "I fucking hate this. Nobody else needs someone to hold their hand when they get a bloody letter. It's stupid. I'm stupid."

"Don't say that," Liam says. "Do you want to talk about how you feel?"

"Liam."

"I found this leaflet online. It says—hang on. I'll read it. It says people with depression may feel very negative about themselves, and that friends should keep reminding them of their good points. I could tell you how great you are if you'd like."

"God. Liam."

There's a pause. "I don't know what to do," Liam says finally, and he sounds upset, and worried, and careful, like everyone around Louis fucking does. The only person who doesn't is Nick, and Louis really, really doesn't know what to do with that knowledge, and those feelings. "I want to do something to make you feel better. You're my best friend and you feel crap. I just want to help, but I keep saying the wrong thing."

"You don't," Louis says, even though he does. He really fucking does.

"Do you want me to stay on the phone while you open it? I can do that."

Louis waits a long time before he shakes his head. It's another moment before he realises that Liam can't see that down the phone. "I'm all right," he says.

"Are you, though?" Liam asks.

Louis wants to laugh at that. Laugh, or cry. One of those things. "I dunno. I really don't fucking know."

"Open the letter, Lou."

Louis waits a beat before replying. "All right," he says. "Hang on. I'll put you on speaker." He goes back down the stairs and out into the hall; he switches Liam onto hands-free, putting the phone down onto the hall table and trying not to think about how much his hands are shaking as he rips into the envelope.

It says:

_Dear Louis,_

_Thank you for submitting your mitigating circumstances form and your sick note dated Monday 2nd December. The English department notes that your sick note runs out on Sunday 15th December and as such, we would like to invite you in to meet with your personal tutor and the disability liaison officer to discuss any barriers to your return to studies, and the issue of your outstanding coursework and this term's work, on Monday 16th December at 11am._

_Please note that if you decide to take a period of formal interruption from your course, you will be required to meet with one of the doctors at the university health centre prior to being declared fit to return to university. Please see the enclosed leaflets from the disability service._

_A copy of this letter has been sent to your university email address, but as you should not be checking your university emails during your sickness absence, a copy will be sent through the post to the address on your mitigating circumstances form._

_Please confirm your attendance by emailing caroline.saunders_ @ _adm.uni.ac.uk._

_Kind regards,_

_Caroline Saunders, Senior Course Administrator: English Literature BA (Hons)_

_Cc: Dr Linda Perry_  
 _Personal Tutor: Year 2 English_ // _Specialist in 19th Century English Literature_

"Well?" Liam says, his voice tinny from the hands-free.

Louis sits down on the stairs. "They're going to throw me out," he says. "They're going to chuck me out."

"What's it say? They're never chucking you out."

"They want me to come in. It says I have to be seen by one of the doctors at the health centre before I can be declared fit. I'm not unfit," he says. "Why do they need to declare me fucking fit? And there's all these leaflets about the disability service. What the shit? They think I'm fucking mental, they'll never let me back in. Barriers to study, what does that even mean?"

"It'll be a mistake," Liam says. "You're not disabled. That's wheelchairs and stuff."

"There's going to be a disability liaison officer at the meeting, apparently," Louis says. "Do I sound like I need liaison?"

"I dunno. But it can't be that bad. Maybe it's just a standard letter or something."

"Maybe," Louis says, but he doesn't quite believe it. He digs his toes into the stair carpet. He doesn't want to be chucked out of uni. Now it comes to it, he really, really doesn't. "Maybe they think I'm going to go mad or something. I'm not mental like that."

"When's the meeting?" Liam asks.

"Monday." His heart's pounding. He's starting to feel sick again. His palms are sweating. "God. Talk to me about something else. I'm going to freak out."

"Are you okay?"

"No," Louis says. "Please. Can we talk about something else? Anything."

"Footy?" Liam asks.

"Please," Louis says, in relief, and lets Liam talk. The panic is still there, but at least he can pretend it isn't, just for a bit. 

~*~

He takes a picture of the letter when he's finished on the phone to Liam, and emails it to Nick.

He's not entirely sure why, either.

~*~

"You're not going," his mum says, his letter still clutched in her hand as the kettle boils. She's just in from work. "I'm at that better postnatal care conference on Monday, anyway. We'll call and rearrange it for after Christmas."

"Mum—"

"You're not well enough," she says. "You're going to get another sick note, aren't you? You've got a doctor's appointment on Monday evening, look." She points at the appointment slip on the front of the fridge, like Louis had forgotten. _Six forty-five on Monday 16th December_. "There's no way you're well enough to go back to uni until at least after Christmas."

"I'm not having this hanging over my head all over Christmas," Louis persists. He feels sweaty and clammy and sick and upset. "If they're going to chuck me out then I want to know as soon as possible."

"They will not chuck you out, Lou—"

"How do you know? I've been so shit all term. So fucking shit."

"Language, Louis. And they won't chuck you out, because you've done nothing wrong. You're poorly, love. The least they can do is let you re-sit the term."

"Like a fucking thicko," Louis says. "I'm thick as well as mental now, perfect."

" _Louis_."

"What?" he feels like he's going to snap, like all day long he's been dangling from a string and it's got progressively more fragile as the hours have passed. "God, I hate this," he says. "I _hate this_."

"I know. It won't be forever, though. We'll get through this."

"I don't _want_ to get through this," Louis says. Frustration is eating away at him. "I just want it to be over. I'm not thinking about this stupid meeting all Christmas. That'd be shit. I just want it to be over and done with."

"I can't cancel the conference, Lou. I've got a hotel booked for Sunday night. Me and Anna are sharing. I told you, the girls are already going to your dad's. Monday isn't going to work. I'm only just going to make it back in time for your doctor's appointment."

"I don't—" he clenches his fists. "I don't need you to do this for me. I can do stuff, you know. I'm fucked up but I can still do some shit by myself." Just the idea of the meeting makes him want to throw up. He hates how much he needs people so fucking much. That was half of what got him into this mess in the first place, being this needy. He hates it. He _hates_ it.

"Louis—"

"Leave me alone," he snaps, grabbing his cup of tea from the counter, where his mum's adding milk to their mugs. "Just—I don't know. Leave me alone."

He hasn't slammed the door to his bedroom in a while, but he makes a good attempt at making up for lost time. The sound ricochets up and down the stairs, even as he's crawling into bed and drawing his knees up to his chest.

There had been a time in his life when he hadn't been two seconds away from fucking up every last thing that had ever been important to him, but he can barely remember what that was like.

~*~

When Nick calls him later, he's dug crescent-shaped nail marks into his wrist.

"I hate this," Louis says, instead of hello. "I hate this."

"What's up, love?" 

"Not you as well." He's not Nick's love. He's nothing. He's just a total fuck-up. Louis has spent all afternoon wanting to talk to Nick but being too scared to call him, and now it's come to it, he's gearing up to be awful again. He can just feel it. It's moments like this that make him hate himself.

"I didn't even say anything. What did I say?"

"I don't know, all right? I don't know. Everyone's trying to tell me what to do, and I just don't fucking know." For an understanding of _everyone_ that means, mostly, the inside of his head, and Liam and his mum. Mostly the inside of his head. "Did you get my email?"

"Yeah, I just got it. Sorry, I was doing some stuff at the radio."

"It's all right," Louis says. He pulls his knees up to his chest. "I hate being this much of a dick. I hate it."

"Louis—"

"I don't know why any of you put up with me. I mean. I get why everyone was so tired of me. I just can't stop any of it."

Nick lets out a breath. "I liked it best when you were really snotty," he says finally, which makes no sense at all. "You've got the best I'm-better-than-you look ever, you know."

"What are you even talking about?"

"You," Nick says. "All the stupid reasons I fancied you."

Louis doesn't know what's going on, but all he can hear is the past tense in _fancied_.

"I'm going to tell you a secret," Nick tells him, a trifle conspiratorially. "Sometimes I'd say something really wanky, just so that you'd tell me I was an idiot."

"You are so fucking weird," Louis says. "You're like the weirdest fucking human ever."

"Do you remember that time I told you I wrote all my lecture notes in a Moleskine notebook?" Nick says. "That was bollocks. I've got a refill pad from W.H. Smiths."

"What—"

"I don't really care what kind of coffee I drink," Nick goes on. "I told you I only drink fair trade Ethiopian, and could taste the difference."

"You wouldn't drink my instant that time I made Harry a cup of tea. You told me I lacked discrimination."

"You do. You didn't fancy me back."

"Didn't," Louis says, after a while. "I mean—yeah."

Nick lets out a breath. "What's got you so worried about that letter?"

Louis shrugs. It's been a day of making fairly stupid phone-related life choices. He rubs the pad of his finger over the inside of his wrist. "Turns out I don't want them to chuck me out," he says, finally. "Turns out I'm pretty sure they're going to."

"Was there another page to that letter? Cos the one you sent me seemed okay. Like, it didn't say they were chucking you out."

"All that stuff about disability, though. And being declared fit. How can I go back there if they think I'm mental? Anyway, it doesn't make any difference because every time I think about coming back next week, I want to throw up. I'm going to be the one vomming every five seconds, and that'll go down well. They'll take one look and make up a reason not to take me back."

"I dunno," Nick says. "Maybe the disability stuff is just trying to help you."

"I don't need any help," Louis lies. "God, I don't even know why I'm talking about it. There's no way I'm going to be able to get on a train to come back. I'll have another stupid panic attack, but this time I'll be in public, and then Mum will properly go mental at me because she's told me I shouldn't go, cos she's got this stupid conference and can't come with me."

There's a pause. "I could meet you," Nick says, after a minute. "I mean. If you're scared or worried or whatever. I could meet you. Or Harry would. One of the others. If you wanted."

"Like—" Louis doesn't know what to say. "Like, after the meeting?"

"Dunno. Before, maybe. At the train station, or whatever. Whenever, really. You could come up the night before, even. See the lads."

Louis' heart pounds. "It's not—" he says. "I hate that I can't do this by myself."

"Don't be stupid. I read this thing last week that just said no one knows what the fuck they're doing. We're all bumbling around pretending to be adults and everyone's shit at it."

"Not everyone has a total mental breakdown, though."

"Louis."

"Severe depression, whatever."

"Are you feeling any better?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. Thought I was. Last night. I've spent all of today trying not to freak out about that stupid letter. I argued with my mum over it."

"That's rubbish."

"That's me." Louis tries to laugh. "Alienating everyone, one by one. It'll be you again next. I'm trying really hard and I'm still fucking shit up." There's a hollow tightness to his chest again, a feeling he hadn't noticed missing over the last couple of days. He so rarely fights with his mum. They barely argue. He's so scared of messing all of this up: his head, his mum, this tentative thing he's got going with Nick.

"Nah," Nick says, and he sounds kind. It makes Louis feel even sadder than before. "I'm like glue, me. I collect people and don't let them go. Boringly obsessive, and everything. You'll be binning me off first."

Louis tries not to dig his fingernails into his wrist. He pulls at a loose thread on his cuff instead. "Do you think they're going to chuck me out? All that disability stuff and certifying me fit and everything. Do you think they're trying to find a way to get rid of me?"

"Sounds like you don't want to go."

"Nick—"

"It's good you want to come back, that's all."

"Nick, really."

"Might get a chance for a cheeky snog at this rate," Nick says. He sounds like he's smiling. Louis can't tell if it's real or not. He remembers being able to read people's moods and feelings. It's like he's just that little bit off kilter now, and none of it makes sense. "And it's not—I mean—you're poorly, that's all."

"But what does that _mean_?"

"I don't know. Everything's just that bit harder when you're poorly, innit? I had this cold last year and I couldn't even manage to put my washing on. By the end I was wearing my boxers inside out. Couple more days and I would have been in my trunks, calling them my undies. Proper grotty, and that was just a cold. Reckon you've been feeling worse for a bit longer than just a cold. And this meeting's bigger than just bunging your smalls in the washing machine."

"God," Louis says. "Who needs underwear anyway? I'm just going to go without it forever."

"Sounds like a plan," Nick says. "Look, I really hate to love you and leave you, but I've got to cover Greg's slot because he's a giant dickhead who forgot he had an essay due. Unless you want to, like, come on the air with me? Bet no one's actually listening, anyway. Probably no one would notice."

"Nah, you're all right. Thought you were broadcasting to the whole university?"

Nick laughs. "That bit was definitely me showing off. Did it work?"

"Not really," Louis says, remembering the evening in the pub where Nick had gone on and on about how he was single-handedly responsible for the regeneration of the student radio station. Louis had barely managed to get a word in edgewise for the whole evening. He'd gone home that night ranting about how awful Nick was, and how full of himself he was.

"Shame," Nick says. "Look, I've really got to go. It'll be all right, you know. I'll meet you, if you want."

"I'll be fine," Louis lies, but Nick's obviously halfway out of the conversation already, judging by his _bye bye bye_.

Louis is left sitting in his bedroom, even more confused than he was before.

~*~

He and his mum argue again in the morning, when he's driving her to work. Louis is too tired to fight about this, and he'd woken up to a text from Zayn that just said _Liam says you might be coming up for a meeting on Monday. You should come up early, stay over. The house misses you xx_

It hadn't missed him when he was there, is the thing. No one had noticed him in weeks. He can't bear the idea of that happening again. He's not better, but he can't go back to how bad things had got. He can't do it again. He's not strong enough. 

"You need to call up and cancel the meeting today," his mum says. She's drinking tea out of travel mug in the passenger seat. 

"Mum—"

"No," she says. "I don't think it's a good idea, love. It's easy to just put it off until after Christmas. Give yourself another three weeks to get back on your feet."

"I'm on my feet now," Louis says. He leans over the steering wheel to try and see if anything's coming. A great big white van has parked unhelpfully by the T junction at the edge of their estate. "And I'm messed up about it enough already. I don't want to be stressing about it until bloody January. I'll be a total mess. Or even more of one, anyway."

"Louis. Come on, be sensible. I can't even drive you up, because I've got that conference."

"I _am_ being sensible." He's not a kid. He hates this. He can do shit for himself. He feels almost impotent, and that's rubbish. It's trapping him even more than his stupid brain is. "I can go to a stupid meeting." Even if the thought of it is enough to make his breath catch in his throat, and for his palms to sweat on the steering wheel. 

"Lou, love," his mum says. She sounds exasperated, and kind, and Louis hates it. "I asked you to go to the supermarket for me yesterday, and you couldn't leave the house all day."

"Yesterday was crap," Louis says. He'd _tried_ to go to the shops, but he just—he hadn't managed it. He'd existed in a little fretful bubble all day long. 

"All I'm saying is that I'm not sure you're up to getting the train up all by yourself, and going to that meeting. A few days ago you were crying all the time. Why not put it off until you're not quite so upset?"

Wanting to cry is all too familiar a feeling, but Louis doesn't want to give in to it. He takes the corner too quickly instead, and his mum snaps a _be careful_ at him.

"I'll be fine," he says, but he's not sure he believes it. He's not sure he'll be able to get himself back to uni for the day either; being this scared all the time is rubbish, but he doesn't know how to do better. 

"I don't think you will be," she says. "I think you need more time."

"I get it," Louis snaps. "I'm not good enough, and even you think it."

"That's not it at all—"

Louis turns the radio on, and up. His hand trembles a little, but he wipes it on his thigh before taking the steering wheel again. 

"Louis."

"It doesn't matter, Mum. It's okay." He doesn't know what he's saying okay for. 

His mum tries to talk to him after that, but he doesn't answer. He doesn't trust himself to speak. 

When he's dropped her off at work, he pulls into a lay-by two minutes down the road and turns the engine off. He sends Nick a text because he doesn't know what else to do: _mum wants me to cancel the meeting because she doesn't think i can get on the fucking train without freaking out. i didn't go out yesterday and she wanted me to and i don't know how to do any of this anymore. i don't want to worry about getting chucked out all fucking holidays. i just want it all to be over_. 

He doesn't expect Nick to reply, but when he gets home, there's a message in his inbox that says _I'll come down and meet you if you want. get on the train with you. keep you company._

Louis wipes his nose on his sleeve. _you can’t do that_ , he texts back. 

_I can_ , Nick's next message says. _don't think we can do it and make it back for your meeting on Monday though. What about Sunday instead? Or Saturday if you want to spend the day with your boys on Sunday. Might be nice._

Louis waits a long time before replying. _What if I fuck it up?_ he asks. _What if it's like how it was before? What if I make it even worse?_

_Can it be worse though? At least everyone knows now. Think about it and I'll look up tickets xx_

_I'll pay you back. You shouldn't be out of pocket xx_

_Think my pockets can take it this once. Haven't been to bed yet, stupid fucking essay due in by 9. Just got it done. Going for a bit of a kip. I'll give you a ring later. Chin up xx_

Louis doesn't know what he's done to deserve Nick being this kind to him. He hasn't cried in a while, but he cries when he crawls back into bed to get another couple of hours’ sleep. He pulls the duvet up over his head, and sniffs into his stupid childhood Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles handkerchief, and wishes he wasn't such a fuck-up. 

~*~

Zayn's the one who actually does something about the letter in the end. 

"I've been to the disability office," he says, when Louis answers the phone to him on Thursday night. He's waiting outside the church hall to pick up Daisy and Phoebe from their ballet lesson. He rather suspects _Miss Emily's School of Dance_ is being partly run by someone who had been in his year at primary school. Everyone's running away from him, achieving and growing up and moving on; it's only Louis who's trapped inside of himself. He can't help but remember his geography teacher: _you'll never amount to anything_. 

His geography teacher had been a gigantic cunt. It makes the fact that he was right about Louis even worse, in a way. 

"About what?" Louis asks, turning the radio down. The doors haven't opened yet to release a steady stream of little boys and girls in tights bundled up against the cold, so he's got a couple of minutes before he has to leave the safety of his car and brave the inside of the church hall to find the twins.

"About your letter," Zayn says. "Liam kept going on and on about how it was a mistake, so I went to ask."

"They didn't talk to you about me, did they?" Louis can practically feel his blood start to run cold. Whatever's going on at the university behind closed doors, Louis desperately doesn't want to have anyone else know. He doesn't even know. 

"Course not, you idiot," Zayn says. "Have you never heard of data protection, or what?"

"Why did you go, then?"

"Cos you've been freaking the fuck out, and because I couldn't think of what else to do that would actually be, you know, actually helpful."

"Zayn—"

"Shut it," Zayn says. "Anyway, so I asked about disability and they said that anything that had been going on for a year or more and, like, had an impact on day to day life counted as a disability."

"This hasn't been going on for a year, though. It doesn't count."

"That's what I said, but then she said that if it was going to last a year then that also counted."

"It better not bloody last a year."

"I said that too, but then I said that you might be dropping out and the doctor said it was severe depression—"

"You never said my name, did you?" Louis asks, in horror. Just the idea of even more people knowing about everything, about how stupid he'd been and how low he'd got—it was humiliating. Shame sits heavy in his belly. It's freezing cold outside but he feels like he's sweating. 

"Course not. Look, Louis. I just went in to ask some questions, right? General ones. And they told me there's all this stuff you can apply for, to, like, help. When you come back. Like, mentoring and shit."

"I'm probably not coming back, after this meeting."

"I said about that, too. She said that you should think about it positively, like they want to know what they can do to help."

"What on earth could they possibly do to help?" Louis asks, in disbelief. "Take me to one side every day and check to see how bonkers I am?"

"I dunno, okay. I only asked."

"All right." Louis waits a beat. "Thanks, by the way."

"I didn't do anything really," Zayn says. "It was on my way back from lectures. Look, I know that the meeting's on Monday and everything, but when do you think you'll come up? Cos, like, we were talking and we all miss you. Why don't you come up on Saturday? Stay Saturday night as well."

Louis doesn't know how to say how scared he is. How he doesn't know if he'll be okay. How he's not the same person he was a few months ago. "I don't know."

"We thought we could do something on Sunday. The five of us."

"I'm—" he stops. "I'm not that good with people at the moment. I couldn't even go to the shops for my mum on Monday."

"Just us. Like, in the house. Niall and Liam were talking about figuring out how to do a roast dinner."

"It'll be a disaster," Louis says. 

"Probably. They really want to do it, though. We all do."

"I'll think about it, all right? Look, I have to go. I'm picking my sisters up from ballet."

"Okay," Zayn says. 

"I'll properly think about it, though. Promise."

"Ace. Give us a ring when you've thought, all right? Harry's already on the phone to his mum to find out how to roast a chicken. Niall's been on to his dad about how to pick the best meat."

Louis manages to laugh at that. "All right. See you," he says. When he's hung up, he sends a text to Nick, _can you do Saturday instead?_

Nick's answer comes when Louis’ inside the church hall, bundling Daisy and Phoebe into their hats and scarves. He checks his phone whilst they're saying goodbye to their friends. 

_Course I can. Harry's roast chicken sealing the deal for you? X_

He's not sure he likes the fact that all of his friends are talking about him behind his back. _Something like that. You don't have to come all the way down. I'll be all right._ He stares at his screen for a moment, wishing the text back, before shoving his phone back into his pocket. 

He really hates being this needy. 

Daisy and Phoebe demand their Ultimate Disney Princess CD on the drive home, and luckily the drive is short enough that Louis only has to sing along with _A Whole New World_ and _Reflection_ and half of _Part of Your World_ before they're pulling in in front of the house, and the girls are clambering out. They both demand to hold his hands even though it's only a few steps to the front door. 

Just for a moment, he remembers what it's like to be the big brother they're always excited to see. It's a flash that's gone as quickly as it had arrived. 

There's a message on his phone from Nick. _I'll call you when I get home_ , it says. _We can book some train tickets x._

The worst part of all of this is the desperate relief that settles over his skin, knowing that Nick is still coming down. Knowing that he can't do this alone is terrible. He feels like such a failure. 

His mum's making tea, stirring things on the stove as Daisy and Phoebe show off their ballet in the middle of the kitchen floor. "How was it?" she asks, over the top of Daisy's arched arms. 

"Good," he lies. "All good."

She smiles at him, eyes soft with relief, and Louis just can't tell her it's all a lie. He can't. 

~*~

In the end, his mum drops him off at the train station at lunchtime on Saturday. She still doesn't think his going is a good idea. 

"Have you got your antidepressants?" she asks him, for the hundredth time. "And those leaflets I gave you about panic attacks?"

"Yes, Mum," Louis says, and he tries to roll his eyes, but he's relentlessly tapping his fingers against the passenger door handle, so it's fairly obvious he's not as okay as he's trying to pretend to be. 

"Remember, you can come back at any time. I can come and pick you up if you need me to before tomorrow evening, and your dad's said he'll come up and get you after that, if you need him to."

"Mum—" he's appalled. He hadn't known Mark even knew about him being poorly. 

"Anytime, all right? Neither of us are going to put our phones on silent tonight. You can ring anytime."

"Mum, please. Please." He's holding on by a thread. He can't do this if his mum's going to be like this. It's already hard enough. He's not been able to eat anything all day, and he'd got virtually no sleep last night. There's a carrier bag stuffed into the bin in the kitchen with the remains of his strawberry jam on toast from breakfast inside. He hadn't been able to tell his mum that he felt too sick and anxious to eat.

"And you know where you're meeting Nick?"

"The coffee shop on platform three," Louis says. After multiple conversations where Louis had simultaneously wanted Nick to come all the way to Doncaster, and for him not to have to travel anywhere at all, they'd settled on meeting partway, where Louis could get off one train and get on another, leaving an hour or so later. "And he's going to be there first, don't worry, I'm not going to be stuck there by myself. He's already texted to say he's almost there."

She sighs. "I worry." 

Like Louis didn't know. 

"How do you feel?" she asks, as she pulls into the station. "All right? Or upset? We can go home."

There's a very, very large part of Louis that wants to go back home and stay there, out of sight of the world, where he and his brain can hole up together and not deal with anything other than his own inability to manage adulthood. "I'm fine," he lies. 

"And you've got my list of everything you need to find out on Monday?"

"Mum, for god's sake." He doesn't mean to snap but he's so tired of this. He's so tired of his stupid fucking brain, and not knowing which way is up, and wanting it all to just go the fuck away. 

"Fine," she says. "Look, just take it easy, all right? Don't push yourself too hard. Just try and have a nice time with your friends, and your boyfriend—"

"He's really not my boyfriend, Mum."

"Friend who's a boy, then." She looks unrepentant. Louis isn't entirely sure how she's managing to keep quiet on the subject of Nick, but it looks a bit like it might be painful. "He rings you awfully frequently for someone who isn't your boyfriend. And there was the, you know. The kissing."

_"Mum_." God. Now he's going red. "I'm going to miss my train. Shut up. Not my boyfriend."

"Make sure he's kind to you," she says, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Come on, give me a hug. I love you very much, all right?" She wraps him up in a hug, and he tries to hold back at first, but there's such a large part of him that just wants to cling. He gives in to it, and buries his head in her shoulder. "You matter so much to us all. Your sisters and your dad and me most of all. Never think for one second that we don't all think the world of you."

"Even when I'm a total fuck-up?" He can't help himself.

"Always," she says. She kisses his cheek again, and slides her hand around Louis' wrist, fingertips against his tattooed birds. There are faint red scratch marks across his skin. "Try to avoid this, all right?"

He looks away, reaching for his sports bag, stuffed in the foot well. "I don't always realise I'm doing it," he says. 

"I know," she says. "It's all right. We'll figure it all out. We'll deal with it when you get home."

He tries to smile as he gets out of the car with his bag and walks inside the station; he tries not to look back. He tries not to cry. 

He gets on his train all right, and finds a seat midway down the carriage. He curls into the corner of the seat, bag next to him, and pulls his knee up to his chest. For the past couple of weeks, his world has been slow and small; just his mum's house and his sisters and dropping his mum off at work, doing the shopping, talking to Nick and the boys on the phone. He's never forgotten that there's a world outside of all of that, something larger and faster and louder that he's stepped away from, but it still feels like a shock, coming back into it. There are teenage girls halfway down the carriage, reaching past each other to look at their phones, showing pictures and posts and bluetoothing songs to each other; a youngish couple sitting opposite, still holding hands even though they're both engrossed in separate magazines. A couple of old ladies, one of them keeping a tight hold of her belongings even though there's no one around to snatch any of them. A couple of families, one with small children and one with a baby. A tall guy by the door into the vestibule, his legs stretched out into the aisle, hat pulled down low over his ears. 

It's like the world's been going on without him and he doesn't quite know how to fit back in, even now, even just on a train to meet Nick. 

He checks his phone: two messages from Nick. 

- _Just got here, picked a prime spot at the back x_  
 _\- hope your journey's going alright x_

Stuffed into one of the pockets of his bag are all his mum's notes for the meeting on Monday. All the questions she's got about him going back. She'd spent ages on it last night, asking Louis for his input even though Louis didn't want to think about any of it for a single second. If he thinks about having to walk into that room by himself and seeing his personal tutor and that disability person, then he'll just give it all up and run away. Nerves settle heavy in his stomach at the thought of Monday; even worse is the anxiety at seeing Nick again. The last time they'd seen each other, Louis had snuck out of Nick's bedroom in the middle of the night. All of the phone calls and texts and emails since then mean nothing in comparison to that. Louis has been beating himself up ever since; he doesn't know how to fix it. 

_feel sick_ , Louis texts, since it's easier to tell the truth when it's just a case of typing it into his phone. _I'm so sorry I ran out on you that night. x_

_Don't worry about it. Honestly. It's fine. How far away are you? Don't worry x_

Louis has literally zero control over what he worries about. _Can't stop_ , he texts. He taps his foot relentlessly against the bar under the seat in front. Harry and Zayn and the others had seemed so happy at the idea of getting to see him again; Harry had told him that it wasn't just a roast dinner they were planning for tomorrow, but a whole Christmas feast and everything. 

The thing is, Louis doesn't know how to not be scared of his friends, and if he's scared of his friends, then what does that leave him? He's trying so hard to be all right, but there are all these thoughts in his head he doesn't know what to do with. The relentless voice in his head that keeps telling him that he isn't good enough, that they don't really want him around, that this is a chore and a duty and that they're not really his friends. He still can't really understand why Nick's come all this way—on a Saturday—just to turn around and go straight back again. There's nothing in it for Nick but Louis, and Louis really can't get his head around why he'd be worth it. 

He's starting to feel properly sick now, and his breath feels like it's catching in his throat. His palms sweat. He's familiar enough with the sensation to know that he's starting to panic; he fumbles for his phone and sends Nick another text: _Panicking help_. 

_You want me to ring?_

_No_. He can't talk about it in a carriage half-full of people. _This was a stupid idea. I can't do this_.

_You can_ , Nick texts back immediately. _You really can. You're due in in five minutes. What do you want to drink?_

Louis doesn't know how he's supposed to put one foot in front of the other and walk into the café. All of this had always seemed so easy before. He grabs the handle of his bag. It barely shuts, what with the presents for the lads he'd shoved in at the top just before he'd left. Even the presents are a source of anxiety—what if they don't like them or haven't bought any for him; what if it’s awkward and he's got things wrong, and he'll be the one just randomly giving them all presents when he's fucked everything up between them. 

_I don't think I can walk in_ , he texts back finally. _I think I'm going to throw up_. 

_You can. What do you want to drink? Tea? xx_

His palms are sweating and his hands are shaking. _Tea_ , he sends back. _Thanks xx_

_See you in a minute. You can do this. Xx_

Louis isn't so sure of that. He's waiting by the door when the train pulls into the station, and he steps down onto the platform with wobbly legs, his scarf loose around his shoulders. He grips his bag convulsively, palms still sweating, and looks around for a sign to platform three. It's over the bridge, and there's a Caffé Ritazza there when he comes down the stairs, nestled in between the ladies toilets and a waiting room that looks decidedly closed. 

It takes him a minute of just standing there and trying to remember how to breathe in and out before he can work up the courage to walk on in. His chest is tight. 

Nick is sitting right at the back in the corner. There are two cups on the table, and a plate with two big cookies on it, one dark and chocolatey, the other paler, with dark blodges that from afar look like either chocolate chips or raisins. Nick's hair is all sticky-up and his coat is next to him on the bench, but he's still wearing his scarf, and his red checked shirt is sticking out over the top of his zip up hoodie. He's got a magazine open in front of him, but Nick's not reading it. He's watching Louis instead, and Louis can see that from where he's sitting, Nick can see out onto the platform and over to the bottom of the steps where Louis' just been standing. 

He blushes red, coming over and sitting down on the seat next to Nick's. He kicks his bag under the table. "Hi," he says, not making eye contact. "What shit are you reading?"

Louis wants to kick himself. He wants to hurt himself for being this much of an idiot, for not being able to look Nick in the eye or say anything nice or even say thank you for coming all of this way. He's trembling.

"Whatever they had left in the newsagents before I got on the train this morning," Nick says, and he doesn't sound mad or frustrated. "I bought them out. There's a _Heat_ too, but I saved that in case you wanted it. We've got _OK!_ too. And whatever comes with it. _New_ and _Star_ , I think. Here, I got you a biscuit. Well, I got us two, but I didn't know what you liked."

"I don't mind," Louis says. He still feels sick. He pushes his sleeve back and scratches at his wrist; it's already red.

"Hey," Nick says, and he reaches over and slides his hand around Louis' wrist. "None of that."

Louis jerks his head up. He's burning red and embarrassed. He tries to pull his hand away and shrug the sleeve of his coat down over his other wrist so Nick can't see. 

Nick isn't looking at him like he's something to be ashamed of, though. That might be what makes it even worse. Nick slides his hand into Louis', so that he can't scratch at his wrist any more. He squeezes Louis' hand. 

Louis swallows, nodding, and drops his gaze again. His heart's pounding loud in his ears. 

Nick doesn't say anything else. He just keeps his hand in Louis', not letting him go, and he turns the page of his magazine. 

Louis tries to remember what's in those leaflets his mum gave him, about panicking. He can't remember. His breath is trapped in his throat. 

It's embarrassing and humiliating, but he reaches for the information sheet his mum had printed off for him, hidden in the front pocket of his bag, trying to smooth it out in his lap with one hand. It says _STOPP_ in big letters across the top, then under that, _stop, take a breath, observe, pull back_ , and _practice what works_ underneath that. 

"You all right?" Nick asks. 

Louis nods. There are instructions under each of the steps further down the page, but he concentrates on breathing for a minute before moving onto the next one. _Zoom out and see the bigger picture_ is easier said than done. "Sorry," he says, after another minute. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Nick says. He hasn't stopped holding Louis' hand, even though Louis' palm is all sweaty and revolting. "Big deal, innit, coming back?"

"Suppose," Louis says. He folds the page in two and puts it on the table in front of them, poking it under the little plate with their biscuits on it. 

"You want a hug?" Nick asks, a little cautiously. 

Louis wants to say no. He really wants to say no. He nods instead, and Nick wraps him up into a hug, letting go of his hand and pulling him in close, arms around Louis' shoulders. He kisses the top of Louis' head. "Hiya, love," he says, into Louis' hair. "It's good to see you."

"Sorry," Louis says. "I'm so sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Nick says, still not letting him go. 

Louis presses closer, hiding his face in Nick's neck, and draws in a ragged breath. It's taken him by surprise a bit, today, how separated he'd felt from real life; he hadn't noticed it so much when he was at home with his mum, just how much distance he'd put between him and everyone else. He hadn't expected the train journey to meet Nick to be as difficult as it had turned out to be. The rest of the weekend feels insurmountable. He can't think about Monday's meeting. "Thanks," he says finally, still not pulling away. "For coming all this way."

Nick sits back a bit. He pushes Louis' hair behind his ear, and touches his thumb to Louis' cheek. "It's no big deal," he says, which is a giant fucking lie. It's cost him money and time and all he's got for it is Louis being batshit in a rubbish café; there's no way Nick wouldn't rather be anywhere else on the planet. "I got you normal tea. That's all right, right? Bog standard builders?"

"Yeah," Louis says. "That's right."

"Good," Nick says. He bumps his knee into Louis' under the table. "It's nice to see your face, by the way. I'm glad you decided to come back."

Louis stirs his tea. "It might not mean anything," he says. "They might still chuck me out. And it's not like I'm fixed or anything. You've just seen how batshit I am."

"It's not batshit," Nick says. "Don't say that. You don't really think that, do you? You're just poorly."

"Poorly, batshit," Louis says. He tries not to show how he's feeling on his face. "I'm fucking mental. No getting away from it."

Nick lets out a breath. "You're being cruel to yourself for no reason," he says, nudging the plate of biscuits towards Louis. "It's all right to be poorly."

"Maybe," Louis says, although he doesn't believe it for a second. He breaks the chocolate biscuit into two. "Do you want to share?"

"Okay," Nick says, although Louis suspects he hasn't heard the last of this. 

Nick breaks the other biscuit in two, and dips the chocolate one in his coffee. He moves the magazine so it's between them both on the table, and points at the Gary Barlow article on the right hand side. "Okay, important question time. Which member of Take That would you shag, and why, go."

"None of them?"

Nick rolls his eyes. "Everyone has an answer to this. Not good enough. Give it another go."

"Four faults for a refusal," Louis says, which is what his granddad always used to say. "I don't know. Howard?"

"Hmm." Nick gets his phone out. "We need to look at pictures," he says, and types HOWARD TAKE THAT into Google. He shows Louis his phone. "He's a bit shaggy."

"Gary's too smooth," Louis says. "You wouldn't want to shag that. He'd be tidying up your duvet when you weren't looking and checking in your drawers to see if your socks all matched up. Mine are never matched up."

"Suppose. I see your point. Not Mark? My sister loved him the first time round. Grew up with pictures of him and Robbie all over her bedroom wall. My brother always said he knew I was gay because I was five years old and I said I wanted to marry Robbie Williams."

"Nothing wrong with marrying Robbie Williams," Louis says. "I love Robbie. Who doesn't love Robbie?"

"People who are wrong, clearly," Nick says, Googling Robbie and showing Louis his phone. "Handsome chap, that Robbie. Cheeky, too." Nick clears his throat. "History of mental health stuff too."

"Nick—"

"I'm just saying." He takes his phone back, and taps something else in. He waits a minute, then taps again, then shows Louis his phone. It's an article from the _Daily Mail_ from god knows how long ago, and the bit that Nick's pointing at says, _'people go 'what have you got to be depressed about?' And they're right, I haven't. Now I'm on these pills. Depression isn't about 'woe is me, my life is this, that and the other', it's like having the worst flu all day that you just can't kick.'_

Louis looks down at his lap. "I didn't know." 

"I didn't look him up specially," Nick says. "I wouldn't. I just—I remembered when I looked him up."

"I'd still shag him. You know, if I had to pick."

There's a pause. "Me too," Nick says. "Me too."

There's another half an hour before their train is supposed to leave. Louis flicks aimlessly through the magazine, the toe of his trainer bumping into the heel of Nick's Chelsea boot. 

"You hungry?" Nick asks. "I think I could murder a panini."

"I didn't—I didn't eat breakfast," Louis says. "Felt too sick."

"Then you'll be wanting something. What do you fancy?" He makes to get up, to go and have a look at the sandwiches. 

Louis catches his sleeve. "I'll get them," he says, and he roots in his bag for his wallet. He pushes it towards Nick. "You'll ask for them, won't you?"

Something in Nick's expression softens a little at the edges. "Course I will."

"I could do it," Louis says, because he feels like he at least has to say that. He could go up to the counter and order. He's not a total idiot. "I could."

"What do you want?"

"Ham and cheese toastie," Louis says. "Or anything, if they haven't got that."

Nick just nods, and pats his hand against Louis' shoulder. 

Alone at the table, Louis gets his phone out and texts his mum. _With Nick. Getting sandwiches before getting on the train. No embarrassing mental freak outs yet._ It's a little bit of an exaggeration, how okay he is, but he doesn't want to worry his mum. She doesn't often get to go to things like conferences. It's too complicated with the girls, and opportunities don't come around all that frequently. He couldn't have messed that up for her, he just couldn't. 

There's a message from Stan, too. _When are you back from uni mate? I'm back this weekend. Up for a large one! Let's drink Donny dry like old times._

Louis hadn't been able to tell him before. There hadn't been the words. He isn't sure he has them now. He texts him, _Been back for a couple of weeks actually. Thought I might drop out. Been a bit poorly and been home with mum. Not sure I'm up for a large one yet._

The answer's almost immediate. _Not like you to swear off the booze! Must be proper poorly. Tell doctor Stan! I prescribe getting wasted. Shots and as many pints as they'll serve us lol_

His thumbs hover over the keyboard. _It's depression_ , he types. _I've got depression_. 

He presses send before he can talk himself out of it, and drops his phone down onto the table. Then he methodically eats his half of the raisin biscuit, and drinks half of his tea, and watches Nick at the counter, ordering them something to eat. Nick is tall and long-limbed, leaning over the counter to talk to the girl behind the till, and his legs go on forever, faded black jeans and his checked shirt sticking out from underneath his pale blue hoodie. When he looks back over his shoulder, he catches Louis looking, and grins. 

Louis works his hardest not to look away. 

Nick comes back over and gives Louis his wallet back. "They're bringing them over," he says. "Amazing how hard it is to get a cheese and ham toastie. They're doing you something with sundried tomato on, hope that's all right, and you're not desperately allergic or anything."

Louis isn't sure he knows what sundried tomatoes taste like. "I like tomatoes," is what he says. 

"Good enough," Nick says, and sits back down next to him, pulling his chair a little closer to Louis'. Louis' phone is vibrating on the table, the message alert going off three times in a row. "Aren't you going to check that?"

"I just told my best mate from school I had depression," Louis says. "I don't want to see what he says."

"Might be better knowing than not knowing," Nick says. "I'm rubbish like that, though. I always want to know."

"I want to know too," Louis says, licking his finger and running it through the biscuit crumbs. "I'm just not sure I can deal with what he might say."

Nick looks sympathetic, which doesn't particularly make Louis feel good about anything at all. "I'll do it for you, if you want. Check, I mean. Like, if you want."

Louis nudges his phone across the table. "2-5-0-3," he says. "Mum's birthday."

"Okay." Nick picks up his phone and types it in. "There's one from your mum, too. It calls me your not-boyfriend."

That's embarrassing. "Oh god. Ignore her, my mum knows nothing."

Nick bumps his knee into Louis'. "There are two from Stan. Is that your mate?" He doesn't wait for Louis to do more than nod. "He says, _sorry to hear that mate, hope it's not been too shit. My mum had that last year._ The next one says, _If you're really off the booze how about the pictures instead or we could go bowling._ "

"I didn't know about his mum," Louis says. "How come he never told me about his mum?"

Nick shrugs. "Because not enough people talk about this stuff, apparently. Are you going to reply?"

"Later," Louis says. The waitress is bringing over their paninis. Louis would have rather had a cheese toastie, but you can never get them. You can never get marmite on toast, either. He likes marmite on toast when he's not feeling well. 

They eat their sandwiches in companionable quiet, flicking through the pages of Nick's magazine as the clock ticks around to their train. Ten minutes before their train leaves, they queue up for two takeaway drinks, a tea for Louis and a coffee for Nick, and then they wander over to their platform. Nick's carrying armfuls of celebrity magazines, and Louis' bag is getting heavier by the minute. It's the bloody presents, they're weighed down with all that embarrassment and shame that Louis' dragging along with him. It's rubbish. 

They don't touch. Louis can't decide if he wants them to or not; he keeps replaying the way Nick had taken his hand over and over in his head, and he can't decide if it's because he wanted to, or just because he needed Louis to stop hurting himself. When they get on the train, it's busy and they have to sit half way down the carriage, the two of them cramming in to two airline seats with virtually no leg room. Nick has to sit on the outside with his legs out into the aisle because there's no way he can pretzel himself up enough so that he'll fit. They pull the little creaky tables down from the backs of the seats in front, and haphazardly balance their magazines over the gap in the middle. 

Louis hasn't spent this long thinking about Duncan from Blue before, but he's Torso of the Week in _Heat_ so they spend some quality time rating him against boybanders past and present before moving on to the double page spread on Cheryl's tattoos. 

"Must be nice to shit roses," Nick says, before they turn the page, and Louis laughs, bumping his knee into Nick's. He moves away quickly, glancing down at his lap, and Nick doesn't chase him. Doesn't take his hand or bump his elbow into his, or anything else that might lend itself to not-boyfriend status. 

It's not that Louis expected anything from this; it's just—he doesn't know where he stands. It's too complicated. 

As the train draws ever-nearer to their station, Louis gets increasingly jittery. Niall had wanted to come and meet him at the station, but Louis hadn't been able to say yes. He wanted to control when and where he saw his friends again; at least if he walks into the house then he can be prepared. 

"It'll be all right," Nick tells him, as they get down from the train and join the throng down the platform and out through the ticket gates to where the bus stops are. "Harry's been going on and on about how much he wants to see you."

Louis takes a deep breath. He shoulders his bag a little more securely. "What if it's pity friendship, though," he asks, as they join the queue for the bus to Louis' house, because this is the question he keeps asking, over and over in his head. "I don't think I could cope with that."

"I'm pretty sure that your friends aren't good enough for pity friendship, mate." 

"Oi." Even now, Louis feels compelled to stand up for them. 

"I'm just saying," Nick says. "You've got to be a particular kind of person to maintain something like pity friendship. None of the lads could keep that up for very long. Liam would be awful at it, for a start. Don't you think?"

"Maybe. I don't know." It's weird; there's part of his brain that knows that his friends would be shit at pretending for any period of time, but he can't reconcile it with the part of his brain that's telling him he's not worth being friends with. That he's not worth putting any effort in for. 

Nick makes a face. "I know I've said it before, but it's important. Harry thinks you walk on water. So do the others. This isn't pity. They just want to be your friend."

"I can't make myself believe that," Louis says softly. He looks down at the floor. "It makes so much more sense that they don't want to be bothered with me. They forgot me. They moved on without me. I don't know how to believe any different."

Nick looks desperately sad. "What about me?" he asks. "Why do you think I'm bothering with you?"

Louis shrugs. "Dunno," he says. "Maybe because you're a nice person."

"Not because I like you, then."

Louis can't look at him. "Why would you, though?" he asks, and his voice catches. He doesn't want to say, _because you're sorry for me_ out loud. "What's there to like?"

"God," Nick says. "Louis—I like you so much, all right. So much."

"Not like this, though." Not all broken and mental and mixed up and sad. No one could want him like this. There's a little part of him that could believe that they like him when he's well, but he can't help but think they're all playing a waiting game with him, waiting for all of this to go away. For things to go back to normal. 

"Like this," Nick says. "Like anything, basically."

Louis risks a glance at him. Nick doesn't look like he's messing with him. Louis doesn't understand. It's like his brain won't fucking process any of this. He can't make sense of what Nick's telling him. He hates this. It's not a difficult concept, being told someone likes him, but there's nowhere in his brain for him to put the information that isn't a giant box marked _lies people tell you_. "I want to believe you," he says. He's quiet, so that the other people in the queue don't overhear. "It's not that I don't want to. I just don't know how to anymore."

Nick still looks really sad. He bumps his elbow into Louis', and doesn't move it away. He just stays there, arm pressed against Louis'. "I'm just going to keep on telling you, then," he says. "Over and over. I like you."

Louis wants to hold his hand. He doesn't know how to ask for it. He leaves his hand where it is, down by his side, and waits for the bus. 

~*~

Nick comes with him to the house, walking up the road with him in the gathering dusk. It's colder here than it had been at his mum's. 

"You don't have to come," Louis says, but he doesn't mean it. He wants Nick by his side the whole way. 

"I know," Nick says. "Left my scarf with Harry on Tuesday. Least I could do is nab it back, the thieving little bastard."

Louis is glad that they're not explicitly playing the _Louis needs support_ card. It's bad enough that it's true, without actually saying it out loud. 

"All right?" Nick asks, as they get to the house, and he pushes open the gate. His gloves are bright red. Louis had forgotten his; his hands are freezing. 

"Not really," Louis says, and when they get to the front door, he has no idea whether to let himself in or ring the doorbell. It doesn't feel like his house anymore, even though he's still paying rent, and all of his stuff is here. He has to pack some of that up to take back home with him for Christmas; even if he comes back, the Christmas holiday is a long time to be without some of this stuff. 

In the end, Nick leans forward and tries the handle. It opens, because none of them can ever be bothered to keep it locked except for Liam, and Nick nudges Louis inside. 

"The wanderer returns," Nick calls, hand to the small of Louis' back. "Oi, lads. I've brought your housemate back."

Niall's the first one to appear in the hall, coming out of the kitchen wearing an apron with Iron Man's body on it. "Louis, mate," he says, arms out, and it's all Louis can do to drop his bag on the floor before he's enveloped in a tight hug. Niall gives good hugs; he always has done. He wraps Louis up tight, so he can't get away, and squeezes. "Good to see you."

He steps back, only to be replaced by Zayn, who's tumbled downstairs, Liam at his back, to wrap his arms around Louis' shoulders. "Missed you," Zayn says, right into his ear. 

Louis just nods. His chest feels tight. Liam's hug, when it comes, is slow but hard. He has one hand in the small of Louis' back and another in his hair, and Louis can't help but let out a ragged breath, letting himself give into it. He squeezes his eyes shut, and lets himself hug Liam back. 

He's wanted this so much. He's wanted it for months. 

When he opens his eyes, Nick's leaning up against the wall by the downstairs loo, still wrapped up in his coat and gloves. He's smiling, but it looks a little sad. 

_Okay?_ Nick mouths, as Liam loosens his grip and steps back, out of the hug. 

Louis nods. He's not sure how much of a truth it is, but at least he knows it's not entirely a lie. 

Beyond Nick, in the doorway to the kitchen, is Harry. 

"Hiya," Louis says awkwardly. 

"Do you want a cup of tea? I've just put the kettle on."

Louis almost cries right there and then. His eyes are wet. "You make it all wrong," he says, because Harry makes a crap cup of tea. 

"Well then," Harry says, holding his hand out. "Better come and show me how it's done, then."

Louis kicks his bag to the side of the hall, and tries to unzip his coat. 

"I'd better be off," Nick says. 

"You're not staying for tea?" Louis asks, stopping with his zip half undone. 

"Nah," Nick says. "I might see you later, though. If you come out. And you know where I am, right?" He taps the pocket where Louis can see the outline of his phone. 

Louis nods. "All right," he says, and there's a bloody big part of him that wants Nick to stay, but he can't find the words. He doesn't know how to ask. 

"I'll call you," Nick says, and before Louis knows what to do with himself, he's leaning in and kissing Louis on the top of his head. 

"All right," Louis says, and he knows he's flushing red. He looks down, fumbling with his zip. He doesn't look up again until he hears the door close after Nick. 

He doesn't know how to look at his friends anymore. 

He goes into the kitchen, where Harry is. The kettle's boiling and the washing up is all on the drainer instead of on the side, and there's a _Merry Christmas_ banner pinned up over the kitchen window. 

The world's kept on turning without him, is the thing, and no one's told him how to deal with that. 

He doesn't know how. 

"I'm glad you came," Harry says. The teapot is on the side, next to five chipped mugs that Louis knows only too well. His is the one with a faded Stuart Pearce on the side, in his Euro '96 kit. It had been at the back of the cupboard when they'd moved in, and Louis had claimed it for his own immediately. "I'm glad you decided to come."

"It might be the worst decision I've ever made," Louis says, and he tries to make it sound like a joke, but he's not sure he can. He's here again, and it's familiar, right down to the _smell_ , but he's never felt more like a stranger. 

"It's not," Niall says, and when Louis turns around, the three of them are in the doorway, squashed in together like they can't walk into the kitchen or something. They're all looking at him like they're pleased to see him, though, even if it's awkward and it's perfectly clear nobody knows what the fuck to say. 

"Fuck," Louis says. "I'm not going to break. I'm just a bit mental, that's all."

"Don't call yourself that," Zayn says, and he comes over so that he can wrap an arm around Louis' middle, and hook his chin over Louis' shoulder. 

"Call a spade a spade," Louis says. "It's all right." On the wall above the kitchen table is a new poster; across the top it says _Time To Change_ , and underneath that, _How do you start a conversation about mental health?_ He tries to look away. 

"How are you, anyway?" Liam asks, as Harry pours water onto the teabags. Louis should take over, since Harry's tea is always just that little bit rubbish, but it's nice, here with Zayn standing so close. His hair is all soft and fluffy. 

Louis shrugs. "All right," he says. "Still fucked up. But, like, trying."

"Good," Niall says. "Cos we missed the fuck out of you when you were gone. It was proper weird here without you."

Louis is proud of himself for not saying, _it was proper weird being here without you all too_. His mum had said, _try not to dwell on what's happened. Concentrate on what's coming next_. It's a lot easier said than done, but he's trying. 

"You've got to hurry up and get better and come back," Liam says. 

"I'll try," Louis says. This is the oddest, weirdest experience. He's been here for their whole university experience, never missing a moment or a party or an in-joke. Even earlier in the term, when they'd all moved on without him, he'd seen their lives pan out on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram. Now he's outside of it all, off-kilter and alone, and it's isolating at best. 

"We've got a proper good weekend organised," Niall says, coming over and clapping Louis on the shoulder. Fear shoots down Louis' spine like someone's tipped icy water down his back. 

"Oh yeah?" His voice catches on the _yeah_. Harry shoots him a look. 

"We've decorated the whole house," Niall goes on, seemingly oblivious. "Pizzas tonight, and _Iron Man_ , then out for a drink. Then tomorrow, Christmas. We're doing a full Christmas dinner. Liam's worked out a timetable."

"We're not going to eat until Thursday," Zayn says, patting Louis' hip. "I've never seen anything so fucking meticulously laid out."

"I got it off the internet," Liam says. 

"Mum says we don't have to crosshead the sprouts," Harry puts in. "We can cross that off the list. We can just bung them in whole, apparently."

"Hmm," Liam says. "Are you sure? Mum said—"

Harry shrugs. "We can Google it later. Get it right."

This is going to be a disaster. Under normal circumstances, a glorious, beautiful disaster. Right now it feels like a horror film unfolding right in front of him. Going out. Christmas. Will other people be coming? Will they know? Will they ask him where he's been and what's been wrong? His heart's pounding. 

"You should see the tree," Liam says. "Come on."

"Yeah," Harry says. "Go and see the tree, we spent ages decorating it specially. I'll bring the tea in."

That tea is going to go everywhere, but Louis dutifully follows Liam and Zayn and Niall out into the hall and then into the living room. Everywhere is a mess of cheap tinsel and pound shop decorations and sparkly cut out things that are pinned to the ceiling and hang down in a garish display of shiny gold streamers. It's horrible. If Louis had been a part of the decoration committee, he would have been as proud as anything. 

As it is, he feels desperately sad, right down to his toes. 

There's a seven-foot fake Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, decorated with garish baubles, more cheap tinsel, and strings and strings of fairy lights. There's a David Beckham Sellotaped to the top of the tree, and a small mound of presents underneath. There are printed out Pokémon characters pinned to the branches. 

"Three different kinds of lights," Niall says proudly. 

"We're all going to die in a huge, great, fuck off fire," Zayn says, but he doesn't sound massively unhappy about it. 

"What a way to go," Niall says. He folds his arms. "Well, what do you think, Tommo? Christmassy enough for you?"

"We've got a good smoke alarm," Liam says. "I checked."

Louis can imagine them all, together, weighed down with Poundland and Tesco carrier bags, stupid Christmas music on one of their laptops, loud enough to piss off the neighbours, pinning up tinsel and stupid cheap sparkly crap, and Sellotaping the David Beckham to the top of the tree. His chest hurts. "It's great," he says, trying his hardest to plaster a smile onto his face. He thinks it might shake. "Really brilliant, lads."

"Wanted to do the best Christmas ever," Niall says, grinning. He bumps his elbow into Louis', like they're close enough just to touch, like Louis hadn't run away and hidden because none of them had wanted him around. Like the past couple of weeks haven't happened. 

Not all of that is a bad thing. 

"And what better way to start than with pizzas." Zayn rolls his eyes. A bit of Louis wants to laugh. 

"Nothing says Christmas like pizzas," Liam says, deadpan. Deep pan, whatever. 

"Right," Louis says. "I'm going to go and put my stuff in my room and go for a whizz, all right? Back in a minute."

He tries not to practically dart out of the living room and up the stairs to his room. He pushes open the door almost hesitantly, like a couple of weeks away will have turned it into something out of _Sleeping Beauty_ , endless dusty hedges and his belongings musty and decayed. 

Instead, it's just like he left it, right down to the clothes on the floor and the dirty mug on the windowsill behind the curtain. There are CDs everywhere, and his English books piled up on the floor, his essays scattered across the room in various piles of his shit. There are clothes practically everywhere but the wardrobe, DVDs scattered across the desk and over the floor. 

He sits down on his bed. 

Niall comes to find him after a bit, sitting down next to him on the bed. "All right?"

"Yeah," Louis says, and he has literally no idea how much of it is a lie. 

"Too much, huh?" Niall says, after a minute. 

"A bit," Louis concedes. "Not your fault, though. Just mine."

"We tried to make it nice," Niall says. "Was that too much?"

"Not really. I don't know. There's a lot of you. I keep thinking about all of you doing this stuff without me. I'm trying not to."

Niall wraps an arm around his shoulders. "We've all missed you. We didn't know what to do. We were just trying to make it nice."

"I know. Sorry. I don't mean to be a fuck-up."

"You're not." 

Louis is thankful for the lie. "I missed you too," he says instead, after a pause. "I even missed this mess."

"You always were a messy fuck," Niall says. "I was going to clean it up for you but I didn't know if you'd want me messing with your stuff. Anyway. I thought it might be, like, comforting for you to come home to. I don't know."

"It is. Almost like I never left."

"I wish you hadn't," Niall says quietly. "I know I said sorry before, but I'm saying it again. Everything I did to make you feel like you weren't wanted. We all want you. Us having other friends—it wasn't instead of you. It was as well as."

"It's my head," Louis says. "It distorts everything. I can't tell what's justified and what isn't. It isn't you." It's not entirely the truth. He was left out. He was left behind. It's just also true that he doesn't know how to move on, how to chalk it up to history and leave it in the past. It still feels like the present. 

Niall leans into his side. "It's really good to have you back. I've put the pizzas in the oven. Harry's making us a salad."

"A salad?" Louis wrinkles his nose. 

"A salad," Niall agrees. "But Zayn's got those microwave boxes of chips. He's doing them now."

"Sick," Louis says, and just for a moment, the briefest second, he feels like he belongs. 

~*~

They eat pizza and chips and salad in front of the telly, watching _Iron Man 3_ on DVD. Louis sits awkwardly at one end of the sofa, far too aware of where his arms are and how he should be sitting and the occasional glance of his friends. You're always mental, is the thing. You can't turn it off just because you're having your tea. 

"We're going out later," Liam says. Louis' hand falters half way to his mouth. He hopes no one notices. 

"Yeah?" Louis says. 

"Yep, Indie Soc," Harry says. "It shouldn't be that busy, or anything. Loads of people have gone home already. Hardly anyone's going to lectures on Monday or Tuesday."

"Right," Louis says, since he'd been a party animal since before he could walk, even back in primary when he'd been obsessed with party bags and going home with cake wrapped in a Pokémon napkin. He's been up for every night out since GCSEs, every single pub night and club night and Student Union night and every single party. 

He doesn't want to go out tonight. 

"You up for it, Lou?" Harry asks. He so very clearly wants Louis to be up for it. "I've got us all wristbands."

"Eleanor's hopefully going to be there too," Zayn says, "I saw her yesterday after lectures. She's got this thing, but she said she'd come afterwards."

"Right," Louis says, and the pizza sits heavy in his stomach. "Sounds good."

It isn't good. He wants to go home. 

~*~

They get to the Student Union when it's still early and, thankfully, still quiet. They ignore the bar downstairs in favour of the smaller one upstairs, where Indie Soc are holding their night. It's the same place they'd held Louis' leaving party; as they make their way up there Louis keeps remembering Nick holding his hand and kissing him and leading him out in front of everyone. 

He orders a Jack Daniels and Coke from the bar, and his hand doesn't shake as he goes over to the table in the corner where they're dumping their stuff. 

"Hope the music's not going to be too shit," Zayn says, sitting down next to him. He's got a pint and a whisky chaser. Niall's following, with what looks like the same. 

Louis hadn't been able to face ordering multiple drinks like them. He'd barely managed to ask for his JD and Coke. "It probably is," he says. He feels a bit like he's not even here. He can feel his heart pounding. "Let's count the number of neckbeards. First one to a hundred doesn't have to buy a round."

Niall laughs, slapping his thigh. "Good one," he says. Louis tries to smile. He takes a sip of his drink and then puts it down onto the table. "There's one over there. Stonking lead, me."

"How are you going to tell if you're counting them twice?" Liam asks, even though in a different light he could pass for a neckbeardy hipster himself. He's in a red checked shirt, and he's sporting something close to a beard. He hadn't had it the last time Louis had seen him. It suits him. 

Louis just isn't quite sure he's happy with his friends making life choices when he's not here to see it happen, that's all. "Honour, Liam," he says. "It's all down to honour." He feels sick. He pushes his drink a little further away. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Nick and his housemates coming into the room. He'd had a text off of Nick half an hour ago, a simple, _how's it going xx_. Louis hadn't replied. He hadn't known how to say, _I want to go home_ , followed by _I can't do this. Why did I ever think that I could._ He hates failing.

Harry hasn't come back from the bar yet, and he detours via Nick and his friends on his way over to the table. Louis watches them out of the corner of his eye, trying to look like he's grinning with Niall and Zayn and Liam as they flip stacks of beer mats up in the air and try and catch them. Harry's talking to Nick, Nick with his arm round Harry's shoulders, and it isn't that Louis' forgotten that Harry and Nick were friends first, before Nick started being a regular—and much wanted—presence in Louis' life, it's more that it just... slipped his memory. The relationship that he and Nick are building seems to exist in a different place to here. Now, when he's trying to fit back into a life that's closed up a little bit without him, those conversations with Nick seem an awful long way away. Even this morning, with Nick tucking his hand into his to stop him from scratching, seems like it almost happened to someone else, someone who wasn't Louis. 

He doesn't like the way this feels. Any of it. He tries to plaster on a smile and not look like a total imposter in his own fucking life. 

He's not entirely certain it works. 

~*~

"Hiya," Nick says, coming over half an hour later and sliding into the seat next to Louis' in the corner. "Do you want another drink? I'll go to the bar."

Louis still has half of his first one left. There's a trembling nausea in his belly and he can't tell if it's down to the nerves, the anti-depressants, or just him being in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time. "Took you long enough," he says, without even meaning to. "You've been here ages." His hand's shaking. He fists it into his jeans so that Nick can't see. 

"You were with your friends," Nick says. "I didn't want to interrupt. I thought you might have had enough of me, or something." 

Niall had disappeared ten minutes ago to go and waylay Bressie by the door, Zayn's at the bar with Perrie, Harry had been around two minutes ago but is nowhere to be seen now, and Liam's popped to the gents. Louis is by himself. He doesn't want to admit that it's easier without them here. He looks down at his lap, and shakes his head. He's so, so tired. He's had to pretend for hours and he can't do it anymore. There's nothing left. 

"Louis," Nick says, quiet even though the music's loud. Whoever's DJing—and Louis doesn't recognise her, so she's not one of Nick's housemates or close friends—she's got a massive boner for The 1975. This is the third song she's played of theirs. 

"I'm okay. I don't need another drink," he says, for approximately the first time ever. He feels weird: tired and anxious and his hands are shaking. He tries to hide them under the table. He's never turned a drink down, not ever. This is the first time. 

Nick bumps his elbow with his own. "I'm sorry I didn't come over," he says. "I thought you'd want some time with your friends."

Louis sort of shrugs and shakes his head, all at the same time. "It'd be okay if you were here too," he says, which is the closest he's ever come to saying, _don't leave me_. 

"All right," Nick says, and he moves his chair a little closer, so that they don't have to shout so much over the music. "Are you all right, though? Having a good time?"

The Student Union on a Saturday night has always been one of his favourite places to hang out. He thought he'd remember these weekends forever. "No," he says finally. "Just—no."

Nick makes a face. "Why didn't you say? Why didn't you tell Harry or one of the others?"

Because Louis is so used to pretending everything's okay when it isn't, and he has no idea what to say when he's telling the truth. "Dunno. Didn't want to ruin anything. They'd made plans."

"To see you," Nick says. "Everyone this weekend wants to see you. They wouldn't have minded changing their plans, I bet."

"Turns out I'm rubbish at all of this," Louis says finally. "I couldn't even enjoy pizza and chips. I should never have come."

Nick bumps his knee into Louis' under the table. "Has it all been terrible?"

"Not all of it," Louis says. "Just the bits I was shit at."

"Maybe you haven't been as shit at it as you think."

Louis shrugs. "Maybe. Doesn't mean I'm enjoying myself. I thought it would be different."

Nick just looks sad. Louis hates making people look like that. He'd tried so hard this afternoon and tonight, and he still makes people look sad because he isn't good enough. 

"Do you fancy coming back to mine and watching a film instead?" Nick asks, a little carefully. "We could get some snacks or whatever on the way home. You could pick."

"I'm not hungry." Louis feels curiously shaky. He hates this fucking feeling; anxiety makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

"Cup of tea, then," Nick persists. 

"This is your night, though. Indie Soc."

"Ah, whatever," Nick says. "You know I'm just in it because I get to see my mates."

"You'd rather listen to A$ap Rocky, I know."

"I've moved on to Drake, now. And I'm back to being kind of obsessed with Beyoncé and Miley Cyrus."

"You're so, so gay," Louis says. 

"I know, it's my Drake obsession, gives it away every time." He grins, bumping his knee into Louis' again. "Come on. I'd rather you were having an all right time than stuck here being miserable. I can see these guys anytime." He leaves his knee where it is, touching Louis'. "Anyway. I'd rather be spending time with you. If we're sharing truths and everything."

Louis can feel himself going red. He doesn't move his leg away. 

Nick starts talking again. "No funny business, if you don't want. Just a film. We can sit at opposite ends of the living room if you need me to."

Louis shakes his head. "No," he says, and Nick's face falls. "No, I mean—yes to yours. Just—you don't have to sit at the other end of the living room."

Nick smiles at that, but it still looks a bit sad. "I'll go and tell one of the boys we're off, all right? Zayn's over there. I'll be back in a minute."

Louis really doesn't even care that Nick's treating him like he's fragile. It's nice in a way, to feel looked after. The burden of looking after himself feels too much sometimes, and he just wants someone else to take it off him, just for a bit. Just for a while. Just until his head's straight. 

He's ready when Nick comes back a minute later, his coat in his hand. Louis' drink is still half full. He's never left a drink unfinished before. He doesn't want to make eye contact with any of his housemates, but he sees Zayn watching him as they leave. He tries to smile, and Zayn smiles back, careful. 

Everyone's so careful. He hates that. 

They go back to Nick's via the twenty-four hour garage, and Nick buys a box of Yorkshire tea, a packet of digestives, and a pint of milk, ignoring Louis' attempts to pay half. They walk close together, Nick's arm brushing Louis', but neither of them press any closer. Louis fights the urge to slide his hand into Nick's. He doesn't know what's okay and what isn't. He knows he used to be able to read situations, but he just can't trust anything anymore, least of all anything his head's telling him. 

It's too cold to try and figure this out right now, anyway. The pavements are all slippery, the puddles iced over. Louis regrets not seeing if anyone had a spare pair of gloves before leaving the house earlier. 

Nick keeps the conversation going, though, rambling on about this dickhead at the Union radio station who basically wants to play nothing but the Skrillex album on his show, day after day. Nick moans about the fact that nobody has asked him to leave yet, and Louis hums in all the right places, but Nick doesn't need him to participate in the conversation. Louis is appropriately grateful. 

By the time they get back to Nick's place, Louis feels less like he wants to jitter out of his own skin. It's a win, of a sort. 

"It's freezing in here," he declares, once they're inside Nick's house, and Nick's got the front door shut behind them and the lights on. Nick's already on his way into the kitchen with the teabags in hand.

"Aimee's idea," Nick says. "Says our 'leccy bill was stupid and we had to stop putting the heating on every five seconds. Who knew you could add a pin code to a boiler unit? So now we're all freezing our arses off."

"It's fucking winter," Louis says, wrapping his arms around himself. "It's warmer outside."

"She came home from Primark last week with a blanket for each of us and one for guests," Nick tells him, filling the kettle from the tap and putting it on to boil. "You can have the guest one. There's a hot water bottle somewhere too, although bloody Gillian's probably stolen it. She's clever like that."

Louis pokes around in one of the cupboards for mugs and comes out with a chipped Take That one, and a faded one with a monkey on the side.

Nick just bumps his elbow into Louis', and smiles down at him like he's pleased Louis is here with him. It makes Louis feel oddly happy, that look, and he doesn't really know what to do with that feeling, so he busies himself making the tea instead.

"What do you want to watch?" Nick asks, as he arranges digestive biscuits on a plate, like a nan would. He still brings the other half of the packet into the living room with him, but he clears a space on the coffee table for their mugs—Louis has the faded monkey one, which he likes—and their little plate of biscuits. 

"What have you got?" Louis asks, setting himself down at one end of the sofa. 

"I've got about three DVDs," Nick admits. "Let's just raid Aimee and Gillian's instead. Henry keeps all of his in his bedroom, like we're going to nick them or something. Do you know, when Henry turned up to halls in first year, he had his entire _Sex and the City_ box set in this locked metal briefcase he kept under his bed? Like a right weirdo. Aims has just bought _The Hunger Games_ , though, have you seen that?"

Louis shakes his head. He's not all that bothered about seeing it, but he also can't be bothered to stand up and search through the DVD piles by the telly to find something better. His limbs feel heavy. He's knackered. 

"Fine," Nick says, and bungs it in the DVD player. He sits down in the middle of the settee. 

Louis' heart is pounding. He used to be brave. He doesn't remember how to do it. He bumps his foot into Nick's thigh. 

"What?" Nick asks.

"You're all the way over there," Louis says, and he knows he's blushing, but he can't help it. Nick smiles again at that, shuffling a little closer towards Louis.

"Better?"

"A bit," Louis concedes. He sniffs, trying not to let on how nervous he is. He carefully arranges himself so that he's next to Nick on the sofa, and shakes out his blanket so that it covers both of them and not just him. It's bright fuchsia and fleecy. He pulls it up over his shoulders, because Nick's house really is fucking freezing, and that means he has to move even closer to Nick so that none of his important extremities risk being frozen off, uncovered by blankets.

He wonders if Nick can feel Louis' heart pounding. 

"Sorry it's so cold," Nick says, as the menu starts to cycle on the TV. Nick presses play.

"'S'okay," Louis says, trying to burrow closer. It's really, really cold. "We've got a blanket."

"Yeah," Nick says, and he bumps his knee into Louis'. 

Louis tries not to shake. He really did used to be brave. He used to make the first move. He used to flirt. He can't remember how. 

"You okay?" Nick asks quietly, a minute later. 

_Do it_ , Louis tells himself. _Just do it_. God, it didn't used to be this hard. His hand's shaking. 

Under the blanket, Louis reaches for Nick's hand, and laces his fingers with Nick's. He's trembling. Nick doesn't pull away. "I'm okay," he says, after a minute. 

Nick squeezes his hand. "Good," he says softly. "Good."

It's really nice, is the thing. 

They manage another two minutes of the film before Nick's phone buzzes with a text. It's on the sofa next to him, so he doesn't need to let go of Louis' hand to reach for it, which Louis is pleased about. His palm is all sweaty, but it doesn't make him want to pull away. Nick is a warm and steady presence on the sofa next to him, comforting in a way none of the rest of the weekend so far has been. 

Nick thumbs his phone unlocked one-handed. "It's Harry. He wants to know if we're really watching a film, and if we are, can he come over and watch it too?"

Louis hides his smile in Nick's shoulder. He feels terribly sleepy all of a sudden; he burrows a little closer into Nick's side. "Tell him to come over."

"Will do," Nick says, typing a message out with his thumb. His phone buzzes again. "He says he was coming over anyway. He's at the shop. Do we want anything?"

Louis shakes his head. He watches Nick text Harry back. 

When he's done, Nick drops his phone down onto the sofa next to him, and turns his attention to Louis. "You sure you're all right?"

"Apart from being knackered," Louis says, and it's surprising enough that he means it. "Thanks, by the way."

Nick twists a bit so that he's looking at him. "For what?"

Louis shrugs. "Putting up with me being a complete mental case today. Not telling me to fuck off because I'm the neediest fuck ever." He doesn't add, _for holding my hand_. 

"Louis—" Nick makes a face. "You got on that train when you were terrified. You met me even though you were scared stiff. You came out tonight even though you hated every second of it. You went back to your place even though you were worried about the lads. Don't talk to me about having to put up with you. You're talking bollocks, all right? Fucking bollocks."

Louis' palm really is sweating now. "Don't," he says. "Don't make me sound like I've achieved something when all I've managed is something that you and the others do every fucking day. This isn't an achievement. It's a massive fucking failure."

"You're so mean to yourself," Nick says. "It's so fucking cruel, the stuff you say."

"It's not an achievement," Louis says. He wants to pull his hand away, but he doesn't know how. And anyway, it's not cruel if it's the truth. "I got the train back to uni, I went out for a drink, I was shit at that too, and I had to leave. What person in their right mind would think that was a win?"

"Me," Nick says softly. "I think it's a win."

"God," Louis says, and he's so frustrated with himself for fucking this up. "God, why do you even bother with me?"

The doorbell goes then. Nick's still staring at him. He looks sad. 

"What?" Louis snaps, wrenching his hand away from Nick's. He hates himself when he's like this, snapping and defensive. 

"Cos I really like you, you idiot," Nick says, after a minute. The doorbell goes again. "I really, really fucking like you."

"You'd better get that," Louis says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He clasps his hands together under the blanket, drawing his knee up to his chest. He doesn't look up. 

Nick sighs and gets to his feet, leaving Louis the whole of the blanket. Louis waits until he's out of the room before he tugs his sleeves down over his hands to stop himself from scratching at his wrist. He reaches for his tea, just for something to do with his hands, and he listens to Nick and Harry's voices as they echo down the hall and into the kitchen, quiet and low as the kettle boils. 

Louis unlocks his phone and texts Nick _sorry xx._ He hears Nick's phone buzz in the kitchen.

He knows it's not enough. It's never fucking enough. 

_Ok_ , Nick texts back. _But you've done fucking amazing today. On Monday you couldn't even leave the house. Now you've got all the way here. At least try and hang on to that._

He doesn't sign off with an _x_ , and Louis hates that he notices. He drinks half of his cup of tea, eats two of the digestives, and then wraps his arms around his knees again, drawing them into his chest. "Your house is really cold," he calls through to Nick, trying to pretend he's okay. "Hi, Harry."

"Hi, Louis," Harry calls back. "Do you want another cup of tea?"

Louis still has the last third of the one he's got. "All right," he says, and he clambers to his feet. He shouldn't be this nervous around Harry, but they've barely had a moment to themselves since he arrived. 

He wanders into the kitchen with his mug, drinking up the dregs. Harry's leaning up against the cooker, still in his coat. Nick's changed into his slippers, another blanket round his shoulders, a black one this time, and he's pouring water into his mug and Harry's. Louis tips the last mouthful down the sink and reaches past Nick for a teabag. 

"Sorry," he says, quietly. 

Nick fills his cup, then puts the kettle down on the side and pokes his finger into Louis' side. "'S'all right," he says. 

Louis tries to smile, but then Harry's taking his coat off, and he's wrapping an arm around Louis from behind and hooking his chin over Louis' shoulder. "Hiya," Louis says. Harry smells like alcohol and the Student Union, a warm and fuzzy smell that comes a little chilled from the December cold. Louis twists round so he can wrap his arms round Harry's waist and hide his face in Harry's neck. Harry's still wearing his scarf, and it smells so much like their shared house, and Harry's aftershave and body spray, and like their shared washing powder. It's familiar and distant, all at the same time, and there's a lump in Louis' throat at all the memories ."Missed you," he says, in a small voice. 

Harry squeezes him tight. "Missed you more," he says, and he kisses Louis' ear. "We're going to get a chance to talk before you go, aren't we?"

Louis nods because he doesn't know what else to do. He does want to talk, but he doesn't know what to say. "Tomorrow," he says, because he doesn't think he'll be up for it once they get back home tonight after the film. 

"Okay," Harry says, as Nick scoops out their teabags and dumps them on the side. "It's a date." 

Harry pulls away then, to get the milk out of the fridge and produce a Tesco carrier bag from god knows where. "I brought Tunnock's Teacakes and a packet of Tic Tacs," he says, and the Tic Tacs are so ridiculously, awfully Harry that Louis can't help but laugh. It bursts out of him like a bark, and it's such a stupid noise that both Nick and Harry look up. Nick's face softens. 

"Tic Tacs," Louis says. "You brought Tic Tacs."

"They're orange and lime," Harry protests. 

"Put them in a bowl," Louis says. "Serve them up." He doesn't know why he's finding it so funny; it's just a Tic Tac. "We could all have one and a half each."

Nick just looks amused. "I don't know. I reckon we could have three each. Push that boat out."

"I like Tic Tacs," Harry says. "Shut up."

Louis wraps his arms around Harry's neck, and hides himself in a hug. "I missed you," he says. "I missed you so much."

It's the briefest of moments before Harry's hugging him back, bundling him into something tight and familiar and so, so removed from the life Louis' been living for the past couple of weeks. 

"I really, really missed you." Louis whispers. 

"Same," Harry says, and his hair smells like cigarette smoke. He and Zayn had disappeared out onto the back porch for quite a bit after pizza earlier. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Louis doesn't let go. He just keeps holding on, long past when the hug should have ended. He just keeps on hugging him, and this is Harry's skill; he's the best hugger Louis knows. Harry rubs his back, and it's a while before Louis lets out a long, ragged breath. 

"Thanks," he whispers, and then he kisses Harry's cheek and steps back, out of his hug. Nick's leaning against the counter, blanket still around his shoulders, watching them. He gives Louis an awkward kind of smile. 

"Let's rewind the film and start it again," he says. "It's only ten minutes, and it's not like I was paying attention anyway."

"Fine," Louis says, and he reaches past Nick for his cup of tea. "Better get a big bowl for them Tic Tacs, Haz. Have you got a salad bowl or anything? Don't know if you've got anything big enough to hold them."

"Fuck off," Harry says, but he does get a little cereal bowl out of the cupboard above the sink. 

Back in the living room, Louis hovers by the edge of the sofa whilst Harry settles himself in the scruffy armchair with a large orange blanket. Louis' heart is pounding again. Nick keeps glancing at him as he clears a bit of space on the coffee table for Harry's cereal bowl of Tic Tacs and the packet of Tunnock's Teacakes. 

Louis waits until Nick's sat back down on the sofa before he sits down too. He arranges himself carefully, swinging his legs over Nick's lap, spreading out the fuchsia blanket over the two of them, refusing to look at Nick or Harry as he rests his cheek against Nick's shoulder. Nick spreads his black one over the top of the fuchsia blanket as the film begins again, and as the titles start, Nick's hand finds Louis' under the blanket. 

His hand's already sweating, but Nick doesn't pull away. 

~*~

Louis doesn't mean to fall asleep right where he's sitting. 

~*~

He wakes up to Nick gently shaking his shoulder. "Louis, Louis."

Louis groans, trying to bat him away.

"Come on, love. You can sleep in an actual bed instead of here, if you want."

Louis blearily opens his eyes. The TV screen is showing the DVD menu, and the living room is empty apart from the two of them. "Where's Harry?" 

"He's just gone," Nick says. He looks tired, and a little bit half asleep too. His thumb is stroking at Louis' palm. 

"He left without me?"

Nick goes a bit pink. "Thought you might want to stay here tonight. He shouldn't be that far away, though. I can phone him and tell him to come back for you if you want to stay at yours."

Louis shakes his head. "Here's good," he says, sleepily, and he's not entirely sure how he gets up the stairs to Nick's bedroom, but he knows Nick helps him off with his hoodie and jeans, before he crawls into Nick's cold bed and shivers his way into Nick's arms. He's asleep again before he's even warmed up. 

The last thing he remembers is Nick taking off his glasses for him.

~*~

When Louis wakes up again, it's still pitch black outside. The wind's howling, the windows rattling a little in the panes. It's freezing. He shifts a little, stretching out, and blearily makes his way down the landing to Nick's bathroom. He pisses in the light of the streetlamp beneath the bathroom window, and half-heartedly rinses his hands before stumbling back into Nick's bedroom, shivering. His feet feel like blocks of ice.

Nick's awake, huddled under the duvet but with their two blankets from earlier spread out on top now, the lamp on.

"Hi," Louis says, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway. He closes the door carefully behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. 

"Thought you'd run out on me again," Nick says, and he pulls back the duvet so that Louis can crawl back up the bed and snuggle back under the covers.

Louis shakes his head, pressing closer to Nick's side as Nick arranges the blankets over them both. He likes Nick like this, sleepy-warm and private. "Just needed to piss."

"I was getting ready to be all right with you leaving in the middle of the night," Nick admits. "I was practicing my _it's okay, I don't mind_ face."

"It's warmer in here than it is outside," Louis says, hiding his face in Nick's sleeve. His nose is really cold. 

"Not really," Nick says. "It's fucking freezing. Hang on." He pulls back the duvet and darts out, opening his wardrobe and rooting around in the bottom. 

"You're letting all the cold air in," Louis complains, rearranging the duvet. "Come back to bed."

He gets the oddest, warmest, loveliest feeling in his stomach saying that. 

He says it again. "Come back to bed."

Nick throws him a glance over his shoulder. He's smiling. "I've got an illicit fan heater in here that Aimee hasn't confiscated," he says, coming back out with a little white heater he plugs in at Louis' side of the bed. It makes a dusty sort of whirring noise when he switches it on, and Louis leans over the edge of the bed to put his hands in the way of its warm air. 

"I forgot to take my pill," Louis says, after a minute where Nick's gone round the other side of the bed. 

"Lou—"

"I didn't expect to be here," Louis says. "I think they're in my wallet, though."

Nick goes over to Louis' discarded jeans and comes back with his wallet and his phone. He hands the wallet to Louis, and starts to hunt through the drawer in his bedside table. "Got a spare phone charger in here," he says, and when he finds it, he plugs Louis' phone in next to his. 

Louis dry swallows his antidepressant, then begs for the glass of water next to Nick to wash it down with. The room's still freezing, but at least now it has an air of defrost about it. The little heater smells like warm dust. 

Nick crawls back into bed, arranging the blankets neatly over them both again as Louis chugs half the water and then settles down on his back next to Nick. The lamplight casts the room in a warm glow. 

"So," Louis says. He's still cold. 

Nick rolls onto his side. His knees bump into Louis' as he shifts position, but Louis doesn't move away. Nick reaches up and strokes the crook of his finger over Louis' cheek. 

Louis can't help but glance up at that, his eyes meeting Nick's. 

"Hi," Nick says softly. 

"Hi," Louis says. He rolls over so that he's on his side, facing Nick. He nudges his knee in between Nick's. 

"I like you so much," Nick says. He strokes the pad of his thumb over Louis' jaw. "I really like you. I've always really, really liked you."

Louis knows he's going pink. His mouth's dry. "I really, really like you too," he says, a little hesitantly. 

"I'd hoped," Nick says. He's still touching Louis' face. Louis can't help trembling. 

"I meant it," Louis says. "Before. About how I wished you could have taken me out for breakfast. You know. After we slept together."

Nick smiles. It's crooked and Louis is inordinately fond of that smile, and he has no idea when that happened. "I'll do you breakfast in the morning, if you want. Harry said to remind you you're all playing football at the leisure centre first thing."

They'd booked a five-a-side pitch in the sports hall to start off their not-actually-Christmas day.   
Louis doesn't voice the worry that his friends will find something better to do, given the slightest chance. His mum had reminded him to stop trying to second guessing his friends' motivations in being around him, but that's easier said than done. He's been so used to making sure that people love him. He's not sure he quite understands what everyone's thinking, but all he has to do is get through the next couple of days, and he's going to count that as the success. Or at least, he's going to try.

"Are you going to come?" he asks, instead.

"I've got this end of term meeting at the radio station," Nick says. He looks apologetic. "I'm rubbish at football, though. I only ever talked about that stupid team because I thought you might be interested. I thought you might play on my team. Stupid, right?"

"Oh," Louis says. He remembers that night in the Victoria, turning Nick down flat, Nick not really talking to him afterwards. Him stumbling home drunk and alone and perilously close to tears. 

"I thought I might drop by your place after lunch, though," Nick goes on, stroking his fingers through Louis' hair. "See how you all got on. See you."

Louis blushes. "Nick—"

"I'm not going to push you into being my boyfriend," Nick says, voice soft. "I wouldn't. I don't think I even could. And if you don't want it, it's not going to change anything. But it's an option. I just want you to know it's an option. If you want it. Being my boyfriend."

Louis can't even process that. The only thing he knows is just how much he likes Nick, how his stomach turns itself inside out and upside down just thinking about kissing him. Everything to do with how he feels about Nick is complex and in a bit of a tangle; he's too tired to try and unknot it all now.

But it doesn't change how much he wants to kiss him. 

He used to be brave. 

He hopes Nick can't feel the flutter to his heartbeat as he very, very slowly shifts a little closer, nudging forward hesitantly so that when he touches his mouth to Nick's, it's little more than a breath. "Nick," he says, and Nick isn't moving, is letting Louis direct this entirely, and Louis can't help but kiss him again. It's a little more real this time, but still chaste, and Nick kisses him back. 

"Sort me out," Louis says, softly, and he rolls his hips up so that his dick brushes up against Nick's, through their underwear. "Please, Nick."

"You sure?" Nick asks, and there's a tremor to his voice that Louis really, really hasn't heard before. 

Louis nods. "Please," he says again. "Please, Nick."

"Louis," Nick says, and then he tilts Louis' chin up with his finger, and kisses him. It's sweet and gentle and Louis would have sworn Nick wouldn't be capable of being this careful with him, but it's just—it's lovely. It's really, really nice. He kisses him over and over until Louis is so hard, hips pressing up, his underwear damp where he's leaked. He pants into Nick's mouth as Nick finally slides his hand into Louis' pants, cupping Louis' dick in his long fingers. "God, you're so lovely," he tells Louis, playing with Louis' dick. "You're so fucking lovely, Lou."

Louis is trying so hard but he just—he just can't believe that. He angles his mouth away from Nick's. "Don't say that," he says. "I know I'm not—I'm not that."

He's so, so tired of making people look sad. He wishes he didn't keep letting these things slip out, these promises that inside he's a fuck-up. His insides don't match his outside, and he doesn't know how to make that change. He wishes he did. 

"You are to me," Nick says finally. He's taken his hand out of Louis' pants. He strokes Louis' hair behind his ear instead. His hand smells like Louis' dick. When he leans in to kiss the corner of Louis' mouth, he refuses to open his mouth and let Louis kiss him properly. He just stays so terribly still, his mouth touching Louis'. "Just for tonight, love," he says, "will you let me tell you how much I like you?"

"I know I'm a pain," Louis says. It feels like it's being slowly torn out from inside of him, even something nice and leaning towards perfect turning horrible because he can't stop the stain inside of his head from seeping out. "I know I ruin shit. God. I'm sorry."

Nick presses his thumbs to Louis' temples, and leans in to kiss his forehead. "I read this thing that said, you are not your depression, and your depression is not you." 

"Cheesy," Louis says. His words get caught in his throat; he can't say anything else. There's a lump there too; he's clearly so close to ruining things and he hates that. He wants this so much and he's actively fucking it up, even though he's got it, it's his, it's happening. He's the only one putting an end to this, he's the only one fucking up the one good thing in his life. It's his stupid fucking fault. 

"It is a bit," Nick agrees. He keeps on stroking Louis' temples with his thumbs. "Sounds like the kind of thing you could get on a tea towel."

"Or a coaster," Louis suggests, trying not to give in to the shake in his fingertips. "Fridge magnet."

"Mouse mat," Nick kisses Louis' cheek. "If I got you one of each of them things, would you start to believe it?"

"Probably not." He waits a beat. "I'd try, though. If you asked me to."

"Try," Nick says softly. "Please, Louis. Try."

Louis tries to swallow down the sob that's caught in his throat, but he can't manage it. It sneaks out anyway. It's an odd kind of noise in the quiet of the night, desperate and too high and sort of ridiculous, but he can't stop it. He tries to roll away, to hide his face, but Nick follows him, tugging him back so that he can pull Louis into a hug. 

"Listen to me," Nick says. "Listen, Louis. You're so fucking strong and you're brave and I've liked you from the very first moment I met you. The only way I could think of to deal with that was to be a gigantic wanker whenever you were around, and I threw behaving like a lovesick fucking puppy into the mix to go with that, because I wanted so fucking much for you just to notice me."

Louis can't take that in. It's so at odds with how he sees himself: the afterthought, the pity, the forgotten one. The one left behind.

"Your friends fucking love you, and we've all made a mess of this, a gigantic fucking mess of it and we let you down," Nick goes on, like Louis isn't having a million different kinds of difficulty processing this. "I knew there was something wrong and I yelled at you and made you cry, and I still feel so shit about that that half the time I don't know what to do with any of it. You think that Harry hasn't spent nine hundred hours talking about all the signs he could have picked up on to help you earlier? That when I've seen your boys around the past couple of weeks, they've always been miserable because you weren't here? That they don't regret fucking up your party, and everything else?

"You don't have to believe that I think you're lovely, but you have to believe that we want to, like, support you in getting better. Cos we fucking love you, and seeing you tear yourself to pieces for shit that's not your fault is the worst. It's the worst, Louis. It hurts, and it's even more shit because we all fucking know that however much it hurts watching you do it, it's got to be a hundred times worse for you, because you fucking believe it. You're living it."

"I do terrible things," Louis says, and it's all blurting out like he's got no control over what's coming out of his mouth. "I'm a shit friend and I pick at stuff even though I should know better. I'm always being mean, like I make Liam do all this shit he doesn't want to do, and I _know_ he's only doing it to shut me up, and I can't help it. I just keep on it until he does what I want, and it's so fucked up. I'm so fucked up."

Nick's shaking his head. He cups Louis' face in his hands and Louis wasn't even aware he was crying until Nick's stroking his tears away. "It's not—you're making it a hundred times worse than it is," he says. "You don't think we all do shit like this that we beat ourselves up for? You don't think Liam gets home sometimes and thinks, _fuck, I wish I hadn't said that_? He's been doing that the last couple of weeks. Harry's been going over everything he's said to you in ages, too. We all say stupid stuff and go over it afterwards. It's not just you."

"God," Louis says, and he wipes his eyes on the back of his hand. "God." He hides his face in Nick's shoulder. He doesn't want to cry anymore. He didn't want to cry in the first place. He draws in a breath. "I'm so sick of going over and over and over this shit."

"It's the middle of the night," Nick says. He touches Louis' cheek. "We can just go to sleep if you want. It's all right."

Louis just curls tighter into Nick's side. He shakes his head. 

Nick kisses the top of his head. "Look, I know this whole term's gone a bit wrong, but it doesn't mean we can't fix it. It's not too late." He wraps his arm around Louis' waist.

"It feels too late," Louis says. He hates all of this; admitting it, going over and over it in his head, never being able to forget any of it, not for a second. "I don't know how to not be jealous of everyone. I don't know how to be okay with everyone doing stuff with people who aren't me. I don't want to be anyone's second best. I don't know how to come back. I don't know how to walk into this meeting on Monday and not sound like a mental person. I'm so fucking sick of being scared of all this shit. I don't know how to be less scared."

Nick arranges himself so that he's wrapped around Louis like a koala. He kisses Louis' shoulder. "If you want, I'll come with you to see your personal tutor on Monday."

"And do what?"

"Dunno," Nick says. "Hold your hand, I don't know. Say the stuff you find it difficult to, if you want. Ask all the questions about mitigating circumstances."

"Nick—" 

"Everyone wants you to stay. Everyone wants you to _want_ to stay."

"I'm going to fail," Louis says. "Even if by some miracle they let me back in, I can't do this shit. I'll come back and I'll do just as badly next semester, and fuck up my degree even more, and I'll have this massive student debt for literally no reason at all, because I won't even have a degree at the end of it."

"Look," Nick says. "It's the middle of the night. Everyone thinks crap thoughts in the middle of the night. Why don't we just go to this meeting, and if you want, I'll ask all the questions you don't want to, and then you can make your decision based on actual information, instead of just making stuff up in your head."

"You don't have to do this." He doesn't know what to say. It feels like too much. Far, far too much. 

"Each of your boys would go with you, you know. Probably your friend Eleanor would too. You need to ask us for what you need, all right? Not just get mad with us for not knowing what's going on inside your head."

"But nobody _asked_ ," Louis says. He feels like he's going to cry again. "For weeks and weeks, nobody asked, and everybody fucking forgot me. That wasn't just inside my head."

"I know," Nick says. "And everyone feels really shit about it, believe me. I feel shit about it. I hate what I said to you. I hate it."

"You said sorry."

"Doesn't mean I don't wish I hadn't said it."

Louis shrugs awkwardly. "Wasn't like it wasn't true."

"Lou—"

"I'm scared of coming back," Louis says, softly. "I'm scared of feeling like that again. I don't know how to stop it. I don't know how to not feel like that. I'm scared I won't be able to stop it from happening again. I can't do it again."

Nick strokes his thumb over Louis' hip, and shifts a little closer, touching his mouth to Louis'. Louis kisses him back, tentative and a little shaky, but Nick is such a solid, real weight, and Louis has felt untethered for so long that he can't help but hold on, even as Nick is moving so that he's kneeling up over him. "You've got us," Nick says, kissing him again. "We all know, now. You can talk to us."

"What if it happens again?" Louis asks, his mouth pressed to the corner of Nick's. "What if it is me? What if people really can't be friends with me?"

"Not true," Nick says. "This isn't you. I swear."

"Nick—"

"At least think about coming back," Nick says, kissing him again. "Think about coming back and giving us another go."

Louis reaches up and cups Nick's face in his hands. He wants so badly to say yes. He wants this to work out more than anything else he can think of, but he just doesn't know how to figure it out. There's still a chance that the purpose of the meeting on Monday is to tell him he can't come back. He doesn't know what he'll do if that's what they say. "Sort me out," he says instead, because he's mostly hard and Nick is here, and he really, really likes him, and he wants the rest of it to disappear, just for a bit.

God, he likes him so much. So, so much. 

Nick slides his hand down and cups Louis' dick again. "All right, love," he says, and Louis reaches up to slide his hands into Nick's hair and kiss him again, drawing him down so that Nick's so close he can practically breathe him in. 

He kisses him until Nick's trembling, rolling his hips down against Louis' until Louis is sure he's going to come. They're both still in t-shirts and boxers, and the room's finally warming up enough that it doesn't feel quite so much like they're sleeping in a fridge. It's Louis who sneaks his hands underneath Nick's t-shirt first, Nick's skin warm beneath his fingertips, Nick shivering at Louis' still-cold fingers. 

Nick stops kissing him then, going back onto his heels, sitting up so that the duvet rolls off his back like a cloak of bedclothes. His hands hover over the hem of his t-shirt. 

It's a question that Louis is desperate to say _yes_ to.

Louis sits up, still trembling a little, and helps Nick off with his t-shirt. Louis had sort of forgotten the way Nick looked half-naked, and he runs his hand up Nick's chest, fingertips brushing over his nipples. 

Nick doesn't ask him _you sure_ , which Louis appreciates because he's perfectly capable of saying no if he wants to, but it's nice that he's taking things so slowly. Nick doesn't make any move to take Louis' shirt off, and Louis ends up taking it off himself. He's still shivering, and he wants to speed up the process so that they can get back under the covers and stay there, like normal people trying to have sex in the middle of fucking winter in a fridge. 

"Up," he demands, trying to push Nick off his legs. Nick looks confused, right up until the moment where Louis starts to take off his pants. Then Nick gets it, and follows with his own, the two of them shrugging off their underwear, and then Nick is naked in front of him, his dick all hard and inviting and really deliciously hot. 

"All right?" Nick asks. He wraps a hand around his dick, taking a hold and then letting go. Louis isn't entirely sure why, but it's sort of nice that Nick seems to be a bit tentative too. 

"Fine," Louis says. "Freezing, though." He makes a grab for the bedclothes, taking Nick's wrist in his other hand and tugging him down. He pulls the duvet up over their shoulders, burrowing down under the covers, Nick pressed to his front. "Your house is fucking freezing."

"I'm being brave and manly for you," Nick admits. "Normally I sleep in socks and trackies and a hoodie and a hat. Ever since Aimee changed the boiler pin code, we've all been about ready to kill her. She can get over this saving money malarkey any time she wants, honestly. Hopefully she'll come back from the holidays vaguely less militant about twenty bloody quid a month. Or however much it is, I don't even know." He wraps his arms around Louis' chest. His dick's all pressed up against Louis' thigh, and he's leaving damp stripes across Louis' skin as they shift position, burrowing down even further under the bedclothes. 

"I like you brave and manly," Louis says, kissing his cheek, his shoulder, his jaw, his mouth. "Like an explorer at the North Pole."

"At least when I go home for Christmas it'll be warmer," Nick says, sliding cold hands into the small of Louis' back. "No ice on the inside of the windows."

"Nice," Louis says. He rubs his nose against Nick's. It's as cold as Louis' is. "What do you want to do?"

"Don't mind," Nick says, pressing his hips up. "I've got condoms. I mean. If you want. Or I could go down on you. Wank you off. Whatever, really."

"Choices, choices," Louis says. He shivers, and it's at least partly from desire. "Will you fuck me? Is that—would you do that?"

"God," Nick says, and he nuzzles Louis' throat. "I've been thinking about that. I'd love that."

Louis feels curiously warm inside. "Really?"

"Yeah," Nick says, kissing his jaw. He cups Louis' face in his hand, tilting it up so that he can kiss Louis properly. "Apparently I'm good at fingering people open."

Louis doesn't want to think about anyone else ever sharing Nick's bed. His jealousy is not time-limited, apparently, and not fixed to just his housemates. "I shall demand excellence, then," he says, trying not to think about Nick kissing anyone else. 

"You'll have my full attention," Nick says, although it seems to be wandering a bit at the moment; he's kissing the sensitive skin beneath Louis' ear, and if Louis is trembling then at least he can blame the cold. "God, you're lovely."

Louis shivers at that, but he doesn't push Nick away. His fingers tighten a little on Nick's arms, and there's a part of him that wants to scream out loud, _can't you see what I am_ , but he damps it down. He keeps it inside. 

Just this once, he tries to believe that Nick's telling him the truth. 

_Lovely_ , god. Lovely. 

"So are you," he manages, and he's got no idea why it's so hard just to say words out loud. They're cloying and thick in his throat, and he can't make them come out right. "I like you so much. I really like you."

Nick gathers him up at that, bundles him up into a hug, burying his face in the curve of Louis' shoulder. "Let me," he says, and his words are muffled by Louis' skin, but Louis can't mistake the trail of Nick's fingertips down over the curve of Louis' arse. "Let me sort you out."

Louis nods, and wraps his arms around Nick's neck, and lets Nick stroke his fingertips over his hole. He keeps kissing Louis, even as he's reaching out from inside their warm little duvet nest for the Durex Play. 

"It's aloe vera flavoured," Louis says, as Nick attempts to pump some out onto his hand and keep Louis in a hug and still keep hidden under the bedclothes, all at the same time. 

"I'm a sensitive soul," Nick says, kissing his cheek. 

"It's kind and gentle," Louis says, reading the bottle. "That's not the first thing I think about when I'm about to have sex."

"Well, maybe it should be," Nick says, carefully removing the bottle from Louis’ hand and dumping it on the pillow behind Louis' head. "Stop paying attention to things that aren't me. Surely you've figured out by now that I have to be the most important person in the room."

"Obviously," Louis says, but it's a lie. Nick always makes sure that it's Louis. Sometimes it makes Louis feel like he's nine foot tall. Sometimes, just for a moment, it beats out the shit in his head. Sometimes he feels normal, just for a few tiny moments in time. 

This time it's Louis that kisses Nick, wrapping his arms around Nick's shoulders and holding on tight even as Nick goes back to touching him. He strokes his fingertips over Louis' hole for ages before sliding one finger inside of him; Louis gasps out a breath and tries to bury his face in Nick's shoulder. 

And Nick keeps him just as close as he slowly—so slowly—adds a second finger in alongside the first, making sure that the bedclothes are up past their shoulders, until it's so warm in their blanket cocoon that Louis is panting wetly into Nick's cheek as he slides in a third finger alongside the first two. 

"Told you I was good at this," Nick says, kissing his cheek. 

"Yeah," Louis says, forcibly telling himself not to think about how he compares to the boys who've come before him. 

"Never liked anyone like I like you," Nick whispers, his three fingers tucked right up inside of Louis, Louis' dick leaking stripes across Nick's stomach. 

"God," Louis manages, losing his hands in Nick's hair, drawing him in again. His heart's pounding. "You can't say stuff like that."

"Yeah, yeah," Nick says, and Louis shuts him up with another kiss. 

It's a while before Nick comes up for air, and Louis is almost dizzy with how much he wants it, how open and pliant and relaxed he is, even though he's right on the edge. He's been wound so tight for so long that he hardly recognises how this feels. For so long his attention has been turned inward, the rest of the world sliding past him and away from him, and it's just been him, by himself. Right now it's him and Nick together, Nick touching him and taking him slowly to pieces, and there's no room for Louis to listen to that persuasive voice in his head telling him he's never, ever fucking good enough. The world feels bigger than just him, and it's been so long since he felt like this that he can't even remember the last time. 

"How do you want to do this?" Nick asks, after a while, breathless, and Louis can't ignore the way Nick's hips keep pressing up against his, something staccato starting to coalesce into something more rhythmic. "On your back or hands and knees? Or something else?"

Louis wants nothing more than to be as close to Nick as humanely possible, but the words catch on his tongue. _Needy_. _Always needy._

"Tell me," Nick says, nipping at Louis' lip with his teeth. 

Louis knows he's going red. He tries not to look away. "Want to be close to you," he says finally. "Want to see you."

Nick makes a soft kind of a noise in his throat. Louis wonders if it was a laugh. He can't meet his eyes. 

"Right answer," Nick says gently. 

Louis pinches Nick's nipples, because the alternative is looking up and letting Nick see right inside of him. 

"Cheeky," Nick says, but he's still so close to him, his fingers are still inside of him, and Louis can barely breathe from wanting it so much. 

"Nick—" his voice catches. 

Nick kisses him quiet, even as he's sliding his fingers out of him and positioning Louis back against the pillows. Louis draws his knees up, and it's been a while, but he remembers how this goes. It's more complicated given the freezing nature of things, and because it's imperative they're covered with blankets at all times, but Nick keeps kissing him, and touching him, and when Nick's fumbling with the condom, Louis contents himself by playing with Nick's nipples, pinching them so that Nick wriggles and shivers and goes red. 

And isn't that an interesting discovery. He's so busy contemplating it that it's almost a surprise when Nick arranges himself, hand splayed across the back of Louis' thigh, and then his dick's nudging against Louis' lube-slick hole. 

"Okay?" Nick asks, and Louis scrambles for Nick's hand. It's never been like this for him. He feels almost _special_. 

He nods, any answer he might have wanted to give trapped somewhere at the back of his throat. 

"Good," Nick says, and he pretzels himself forward to kiss Louis again before he pushes inside. The first couple of seconds are tough; even with all the prep, Louis is smaller than Nick and his body resents the intrusion. Nick stills as Louis clenches around him, fingers tightening around Nick's forearms. "All right?"

"Give me a second," Louis says, and he lets out a breath, and wills himself to relax. It's another couple of seconds before his grip loosens on Nick's arms. He's been so tense for so long that he's not entirely sure he can remember how to be anything else. "All right."

Nick takes it even slower this time, and Louis tries not to groan out his thanks. It's already shifting, his natural reaction twisting a little, turning into something nicer, something hotter, something that makes him want to press down onto Nick's dick to shift the angle. 

He does, and Nick smiles at him then, his stupid sticky-up hair all soft and falling across his face. He's flushed and his lips are kissed red, his smile doing the oddest, queerest things to Louis' insides. 

There's a tiny voice inside of Louis that whispers _I love you_ , as quiet as the wind. Louis kisses it away, unable to trust the voices inside of him; he kisses Nick's breathless smile, pressing down onto Nick's dick as Nick fucks him so, so slowly. 

Nick cups Louis' face in his hand, and kisses him breathless, panting against his mouth as he fucks into him, never speeding up, slowly taking Louis to pieces just like this. 

Louis hooks his foot around Nick's waist, trying to change the angle. "Harder," he says, in between kisses, and Nick is gently obedient, and oddly that's enough to make his orgasm feel closer. It steals up on him even as Nick's kissing him, as sweat beads across his forehead and he wraps his arms around Nick's shoulders, anchoring him close even though the angle's fucked and he knows Nick can't fuck into him as easily anymore. He bites down on Nick's shoulder, pressing open mouth kisses to the underside of his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. He's going to come. Nick's going to make him come, and he wants it, he wants it so badly he can't put it into words. It's a need that stretches over his skin and tingles down into his fingertips, a need that's translated to Nick's skin as Louis tries to tell him in fingerprints and kisses just exactly how he feels. 

Nick's rhythm is edging towards something off the beat and staccato too, Louis feeling it inside of his chest. He counts it off in pulse beats even as he's meeting Nick's mouth in kiss after kiss. 

"Nick—"

"Come on," Nick pants, catching the corner of his mouth into a kiss. "Please, love. Come."

"You come," Louis manages, but he can't help himself. He's so close. When Nick laughs against his mouth, it trembles across Louis' skin, and he comes almost quietly, his breath catching in Nick's kiss as his hips rock up, his dick pulsing against Nick's stomach. 

"Louis," Nick says, still fucking into him. "God, _Louis_." It's more coherence than Louis could have managed. 

Louis is shaking with it, the oversensitivity of still being fucked even after his orgasm; his fingers clench around Nick's arms. He bites his lip to keep from crying out, and Nick kisses him, panting into his mouth. 

"Gonna come," Nick tells him, kissing him again. He's breathless. "You're going to make me come, Lou."

Louis can't speak. He nods instead, catching Nick's mouth in another kiss. He feels when Nick starts to come, the tiny, bitten-off whine in the back of Nick's throat as his hips stutter up; he tangles his fingers into Nick's messy hair and holds on, feeling the frantic pounding of Nick's heart match his. 

They stay like that for a long time, the two of them wrapped up in each other's arms, breathless and hot and messy and together. So, so together. 

~*~

When he wakes up again, Nick's still wrapped around him, one hand on Louis' hip, keeping Louis anchored close. He's asleep with his cheek pillowed on Louis' shoulder, the blankets pulled up over both of them. The lamp's still on, casting everything in a warm glow, but the fan heater's switched off; it's freezing outside the blankets and way too hot inside their nest of bedclothes. Nick's breath is warm against his skin. 

It's really, really nice. 

Louis lets out a breath, drops a kiss to Nick's sleep-warmed shoulder, and stays just where he is.


	6. Take All The Courage You Have Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wishes he could pick through the feelings and reactions inside of his head and just go with the rational, sensible ones, but he doesn't know how. The rest of it is so loud in his head; he doesn't even know if there _are_ good decisions in there still, or if there ever were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to **hermette** and **ofjustimagine** for their help and their betas and for being generally great. You are much appreciated.  <3 Thank you as well to the other people who read this for me. You know who you are. <3
> 
> There is one more chapter after this. I know I keep saying that, but as I've actually finished it this time, it's the absolute truth. Once it's edited and I've had time to go through it, I'll put it up. I've also made a mix, which I'll put up at the same time as it's a bit spoilery. Sorry it's taken me two months. a) real life happened and b) between this chapter and the next one, it's an additional 40-50k. It's now the longest thing I've ever written, so that's a thing that happened. 
> 
> Words of caution/ further content notes: content warnings from previous chapters still apply; this contains Louis still being sad, but working through some stuff, a lot of the distorted thought processes and actions that come with being in the middle of a depressive episode, poor language choices (particularly with respect to mental health), self harming behaviours, discussion of self harm, people not always reacting in the best way possible, but everyone trying. I think that's everything but if I've missed something, or if you want to ask anything else about the content, then you can send me an [ask on Tumblr](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/ask) and I'll do my best to answer your question.
> 
> As before, thank you so much for the comments, and the asks, and everything else. Thank you <3
> 
> I don't know how to warn for catapulting sprouts, so, um, I'll just leave this sentence here.
> 
> And lastly, there's a bit with Sam Smith lyrics in it.

~*~

When Louis wakes up, the space next to him in bed is empty, and Nick's gone. 

Even though he's still mostly asleep, the only rational response he can come up with is to run. He knows—even as he's thinking it—that it's a terrible reaction to have, but panic sets in without his permission. Nick's gone, which means Nick doesn't want him here, which means Nick didn't want to hurt his feelings and physically chuck him out, which means Louis has to leave. It's the only reasonable response he can think of, anxiety ingrained somewhere so deep down inside of him that he can't reach it to wish it away. 

He already has his t-shirt and his pants on when the door opens. Nick stands in the doorway, wrapped up in a ridiculous spotty dressing gown and slippers, struggling with two cups of tea and a plate of toast. 

"God."

Louis freezes, halfway through pulling his jeans on. 

"Are you going?" Nick puts the tea down on the desk. He has to shove a pile of notes out of the way so he can fit the plate with the toast on too. "Were you running out on me again?"

"You'd gone," Louis says awkwardly. He's still half bent over, one foot in his jeans. "I thought that meant you wanted me to leave."

Nick shuts the door behind him quietly. For all Louis knows, it's still the middle of the night. It's dark outside, and freezing inside. He hadn't paid much attention to the time when he'd stumbled out of bed in a cold sweat. "I just went for a wee and to make us a cup of tea." The dressing gown is a ridiculous, fluffy, huge affair with multi-coloured spots all over it, and matching slippers. All those months Louis had thought Nick was a giant hipster, and if he'd just seen his collection of bedroom wear, he might have realised that there were a few other layers to him too. "Are you really leaving?"

Louis puts his foot back down on the floor. He straightens up. "Do you want me to?" He wishes he could pick through the feelings and reactions inside of his head and just go with the rational, sensible ones, but he doesn't know how. The rest of it is so loud in his head; he doesn't even know if there _are_ good decisions in there still, or if there ever were. Any ability he ever had to filter is missing, presumed dead.

"No," Nick says carefully. "I'd have to eat all this toast by myself if you left."

Louis wishes he knew what to do with all of this, but he doesn't. He kicks his jeans off his foot. "I—sorry," he settles for. "Sorry. I thought you wanted me to go."

Nick just looks sad. Louis hates that. He hates that he can put that look on people's faces, and not know how to take it away again. He used to be able to make people laugh. Now it's all he can do to stay afloat. He hasn't made anyone laugh in ages. 

"No. I didn't. I don't."

Indecision is terrible. Louis doesn't know what to do. That's the worst part of all of this; the lack of control over himself. He nudges his jeans over towards the desk. "Can I stay, then?"

"Yeah," Nick says. "Like I said, there's all this toast."

"I'll just nip to the loo, then," Louis says, because it's awkward now, and he doesn't know how to fix it. He's made a mess of things. He's always making a mess of things. He wants to go over to Nick and curl into his side, apologise for getting things wrong, and say that he won't do it again, but he can't. The words stick in his throat. He's always been shit at saying sorry, but now it's different. There's a gap a mile wide between the words in his brain and the words that come out of his mouth. 

He escapes to the bathroom instead, still only in his pants and his t-shirt and hoping that none of Nick's flatmates are around. He stares at his reflection in the mirror. He still looks just like he used to do, albeit a bit scruffier and messed up because he'd had sex last night, but that's not a totally unfamiliar experience. There's still a mismatch, though; on the outside he looks like he's normal. It's only inside his head that's a total fucking mess. 

He splashes water on his face before he goes back to Nick's bedroom. 

Nick's sitting up in bed, the dressing gown replaced with a hoodie. There's another hoodie laid out on Louis' side of the bed too, so Louis doesn't get undressed again, just awkwardly pulls the hoodie on and climbs back into bed instead. Nick has his laptop open on his lap, the plate of toast on the covers next to him, and Louis scrunches his courage up into a ball and presses himself to Nick's side, hiding his face in Nick's shoulder. 

"Sorry," he says, in a muffled voice. 

Nick wraps an arm around Louis' shoulders. "It's all right. It doesn't matter." He rubs his thumb over Louis' bicep. "But, like—you could try and remember, chances are, I'm never going to want you to go. That might help."

Louis can't help but remember that night at Nick's party, all those weeks ago. Nick had wanted him to go then. Everyone had. He pushes the thought away, trying to remind himself that it's useless to dwell on that now. He'd promised his mum he'd try to put all of that to one side and just concentrate on the future instead, but it's hard. It's all so tangled up with how he feels about himself, and he doesn't know how to unpick it so that it makes sense. "I panicked."

"I know," Nick says. "It's all right."

Louis doesn't think it is actually all right, but he's not sure how to deal with that. He butts his nose into Nick's shoulder instead. Nick's so nice, and Louis likes him so much, and he doesn't want to upset him. That's kind of the last thing he wants. If he wasn't so mental, maybe this would be easier, but he's so fucked up that none of it is easy. 

Nick strokes Louis' hair away from his face. Louis really likes how gentle Nick is with him. He hates how needy he is at the moment, but there's something quiet about the two of them together that settles him inside. It should be a surprise, considering how loud they can both be normally, but it doesn't feel like much of one. Nick's capacity for kindness doesn't surprise him anymore. He wishes his own capacity for fucking stuff up didn't. 

He kisses the inside of Nick's wrist, and for a moment, there's just the two of them, quiet and together in the chill of the morning. He wishes he knew what was going through Nick's head.

"Do you want to watch something?" Nick asks, after a couple of minutes, waking up his laptop by tapping the trackpad. "I've got loads of episodes of _The Simpsons_ and _Keeping Up With Kardashians_ downloaded on here. I basically just watch crap. It's that or old episodes of _The Great British Bake Off_ or _X Factor_. I've seen most of last night's final, though, but we could watch it again if you wanted to see it. It's the proper final tonight. Have you been watching it this year? It's been proper boring, I thought. Like, Sam was always going to win. It's her and that Scottish kid tonight, what's his name? Nicholas. Good name that, but he's never going to win. Don't know why anyone's still watching."

Louis leans up and rubs his nose over Nick's cheek. He's a bit stubbly. "Sorry," he says softly, again. He doesn't know how to draw his mistake to an end. He doesn't know how to make sure he doesn't keep making them. He doesn't want to lose Nick. "Sorry. I messed up."

"I'm not good at one night stands," Nick says. "Like, I'm proper shit at them."

Louis tries not to freeze, but he's not sure he can help himself. He hadn't thought this was a one night stand. Had he got it wrong? He pulls away, sitting up so that the duvet falls down to his waist. It's cold out from under the covers, even with the hoodie.

"No, I mean, like—I always want to do this. Wake up and watch crap telly and eat toast. But like, you and me—these nights. They never seem to go to plan. Sorry, I'm making it worse. Don't look so scared, please." There's a furrow in between Nick's brows, but Louis doesn't know how he's supposed to react. He doesn't know any of it. He's so, so sick of not being able to read situations any more. He's so tired of not knowing what the fuck he's supposed to be doing for the best from one minute to the next. His palms are sweating. 

"Nick—"

"I'm asking you to stay," Nick says, cutting him off. "Not leave. The opposite of leave. I'm asking you to stay. With me. Just, like, hang out with me in bed for a bit. Watch something together. And don't get scared and think I want you to go just because I might need to nip to the loo or go and get us something else to eat."

Louis bumps his knee into Nick's under the covers. It's half by accident, but now he's touching him again, he can't bring himself to move away. The anxiety that had sprung into action with the empty space next to him in bed has taken root in his chest, worry suffocating everything else into submission. Not even the quiet of the room, or Nick's endless patience with him is enough to push it away. "What time is it?"

"About quarter past seven," Nick says. His hand is brushing Louis'. Louis really wants to lace his fingers with Nick's and press closer again, but his courage is missing, presumed dead. He used to walk up to boys and kiss them, and now he can't even hold hands and cuddle with someone he had sex with last night. His heart's pounding. "I couldn't sleep."

"That's a lie-in for me, the last couple of weeks. I've been driving my mum to work dead early." He tries to make it sound normal. He doesn't know if it works. 

"I know," Nick says, and he slides his hand over Louis' bare thigh, thumb stroking at his skin. "Will you stay?"

It takes Louis a good thirty seconds to build up the courage to move into Nick's side again. He rests his cheek against Nick's shoulder, and tries to focus on something—anything—that isn't the gentle rhythm of Nick's thumb against his skin. " _The Simpsons_ ," he says. "I want to watch _The Simpsons_."

Nick lets out a breath. 

Under the covers, without Nick's hand to hold, Louis scratches at his wrist. It itches. 

~*~

They walk to the leisure centre together later on, but they don't touch. Nick's on his way to meet this girl, Fiona, at the student radio station, which is in the opposite direction to the way they're walking, but Louis doesn't bring up Nick's detour. He's grateful for the company even if he can't build up the courage to hold Nick's hand. What they do in the privacy of Nick's bedroom, Nick might not want when they're outside in the real world, and Louis definitely doesn't want to highlight the fact he's lost the ability to read social situations. So he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and hunches his shoulders up against the cold of the morning. 

He pretends he doesn't see Nick glancing over at him, all wrapped up in his long wool coat and his red checked scarf. Louis doesn't even have gloves, and his hands are freezing. He's meeting the lads to have a kick-about on the five a side pitch in the sports hall at the leisure centre, and inside he's terrified. He doesn't want to be scared of his friends, but he's not sure how not to be. He'd run out on them last night, just like the last time he'd been at the Student Union, for his leaving party. He'd hated every moment of being there, and being there was what being a student was all about. If Louis can't deal with the Student Union, can't face going and getting wasted with his mates every weekend, then there's no point even thinking about coming back. There isn't a space for him if he can't do that.

He'd texted Niall an hour ago, asking him if he'd come and meet him early, and if he could bring him a change of clothes and some toothpaste and a toothbrush. It had been Nick's idea, after Louis had managed to vaguely admit that facing his friends after running out on them was making him worry. "They're your friends," Nick had said, "and they love you. Text one of them and get them to come and meet you early, if you're worried. Moral support. You need them to bring you something to wear for football, anyway." He'd kissed the top of Louis' head then, and Louis had felt useless, and a failure, and comforted, all at once. "Just don't text Harry," Nick had said then, even as he was disappearing back out of the bedroom to make them fresh cups of tea and get the remains of last night's biscuits. "He'll turn up late and bring you a picture of a duck by accident." 

It had been an excellent point, and when they get to the leisure centre, Niall's already there and waiting for them, bundled up against the cold and carrying Louis' rucksack. 

He pulls Louis into a hug as soon as they get near enough, and claps Nick on the arm. 

Louis' missed Niall. He's really, really missed him. He clings a little bit too long.

"Sorry about last night," Niall says, when he pulls away. Louis doesn't know which way to turn: Niall, or Nick, or neither. He ends up in the middle of them both, too awkward to beg to be touched. "Dragging you to the Union. We properly messed up."

"You didn't," Louis wraps his arms around himself. He remembers what Nick had said about how he's supposed to say some of the stuff that's in his head, and not expect everyone to just _know_. "I should have said—" He should have said _I'm scared_. "I should have said I wasn't up for it."

Niall smiles, but it looks a little bit sad round the edges, even as he's clapping Nick on the arm again. "Lucky you had Nick to rescue you."

"I should have said," Louis says again, because once upon a time, it would have been easy to say, and because the fact he's reliant on other people to make sure he's okay is the worst feeling ever. He really hates that he has to be looked after. He really hates that he likes it when they do. 

"I've got to go," Nick says, interrupting them. "I'm going to be proper late otherwise, and what sort of impression is that going to give to tiny, enthusiastic first years who want to produce my radio show?" He smiles a wide, lopsided smile, and then leans in to press an awkward kiss to Louis' temple. "Might drop round later, if you're bored and want company. I never did pick up my other scarf from that bloody bastarding thieving housemate of yours."

Louis nods, dropping his gaze. His skin's tingling from where Nick kissed him. "Okay. I'll call you, if..." he trails off. He appreciates Nick's offer, but he doesn't want to need it. He doesn't want to be rescued. Not again. "I'll call you."

"Okay," Just for a moment, Nick bumps his knuckles against Louis' hip. "I might see you later, then. It was good seeing you, Niall."

"You too, mate." 

Louis waits until Nick's gone around the corner before he risks a glance at Niall, who's looking at him with one eyebrow raised. "So." 

"So," Niall says, elbowing Louis in the side. "You and Nick, huh?"

Louis knows he's blushing. "Niall—"

"It's all right, I won't hassle you about it." Niall always would have done before. It's another measure of how much things have changed. "It's properly freezing out here. Let's go in and get changed and wait for the others inside."

"All right." It's awkward between the two of them where it's never been awkward. They go and book in at reception, and then push through the turnstiles, heading in the direction of the changing rooms.

Louis scratches at his wrist again as they go up the stairs. The sense of unease in his stomach won't go away, even as they push open the door to the changing rooms. He tries to listen to what Niall's telling him as they get changed, this story about a girl from last night he'd met in the queue at the pizza shop after last orders. There's a familiarity to the storytelling—Niall spying her eying up the menu, snogging in a doorway by West Point, her with a chicken and sweetcorn pizza in one hand, him with a spicy beef one in his. They'd ended up swapping half their pizza as well as numbers. Niall remembers the pizza, but not her name, so he couldn't ring her even if he'd wanted to. There are a lot of people in his phone.

"You don't want to ring her?" Louis asks, stuffing his clothes into the rucksack Niall had brought him. Niall's picked out his favourite t-shirt and shorts and trainers; it's a reminder that people notice things about him. It's not that he's forgotten that, but it is one of the things that just seems an awfully long way away from hiding in his bedroom in Doncaster.

Niall makes a face. "Chicken and sweetcorn, mate. Poor choice. We'd never have made it through. That can't be your drunk pizza choice, it's just wrong. You've got to go big. Chicken and sweetcorn's going small."

Louis laughs, unable to help himself. That's just Niall. Got to keep pushing the boat out. "Remember that time last year when Liam got that spicy kebab and tried to wash the hot sauce off under the tap?"

"That wasn't Liam, it was me," Niall says, as they head down the corridor and into the sports hall with their bags. "It was my pre-chili days. Remember those?"

"I'd forgotten that." There's a sheet of paper on the wall outlining who has booked which area of the hall, and the room is divided into three with giant curtains separating out the areas. There are people playing in two of the three spaces, so they head over to the far corner to their pitch, and dump their stuff on the bench by the side of the hall. 

"I made the elementary error of putting the pita bread under the tap too," Niall said, getting a football out of a Tesco carrier bag. "I was wasted. Ate it anyway, though."

"You would," Louis says. He doesn't know where to look. He ends up staring at his feet. "I'd forgotten that too."

Niall lets out a breath. He drops the ball, stopping it from rolling away with his foot. He nudges his elbow into Louis'. "You should have said something last night. That you didn't want to go out. You should have just said."

Louis shrugs a shoulder. He doesn't want it to be a big deal, him being too fucked up for any of the things they'd all used to do together. "You'd got wristbands and everything. Anyway. I wanted it to be all right. I always just want it to be the same, and it isn't."

"We would have stayed in, you know."

"But then I would have ruined all of your Saturday nights, and not just mine. Last Saturday of term, too. That would have been shit. I'm trying not to be shit. That's what got me into this mess."

"There's a difference, you know. Between being shit and telling us something makes you uncomfortable."

Louis tries to take the ball off Niall, but Niall won't let him. 

"No," Niall says. "I'm trying to tell you something."

Louis sits down on the bench next to his bag. "I hate this."

"I know," Niall says, sitting down next to him. He wraps an arm around Louis' shoulders. "I know, all right. But we were trying to do stuff so that you'd have a nice time and not be freaked out or sad or anything, and it turned out we picked something which you hated, and freaked you out anyway, and you didn't tell us. We couldn't change it if you didn't tell us."

Louis feels like he's failed all over again. "I don't know how," he says, staring down at the ground. "Everyone goes out and gets drunk. I can't even do that anymore." He's scratching at the bird on his wrist again. When he notices he's doing it, he tries to stop, but his t-shirt's short-sleeved; there's nothing to pull down and cover the redness or the scratches or the scabs from where he's scratched before. He hadn't thought to ask Niall to bring him a long-sleeved top. He hadn't really known he'd been scratching so much; when he looks down, his wrist is a mess of red marks. He makes a grab for his bag, and for his hoodie inside. He hadn't thought to hide. He's such an idiot. He can't move quick enough. His wrist's on show. It feels like there's a massive giant arrow pointing down at it, and he's blushing too, trying to cover it up.

"Is that blood? What did you do?" Niall asks, trying to get a look at Louis' wrist. "Did you catch it on something?"

"No," Louis says, too quickly. He should have said yes. It's obvious he's been scratching a lot. There's a unfamiliar but vague sense memory of it feeling good, but he definitely hadn't noticed it as it happened. He doesn't understand how his brain works, how it can block out the scratching but not a bit of the constant monologue telling him he's not good enough. His wrist looks a mess, but everything in his bag appears to be on top of his jumper, and he can't get it out quick enough. 

"Louis—"

"It's nothing," Louis says, tugging his jumper on over his head. He pulls it down over his wrists. "Just leave it, okay?"

"There's blood on your wrist," Niall says, reaching for him. 

"No, there isn't," Louis insists, even though there is. He must have caught a scab. He tries to pull away, and ends up standing at one end of the bench when Niall's still sitting at the other. "It's fine, all right? I've got it under control."

It's the wrong thing to say. It's the absolute wrong thing to say. 

"Oh, god," Niall says. "Tell me it's not—" He makes a grab for him. "Are you cutting yourself? You can die doing that. You can fucking die."

"No," Louis snaps. "God. I wouldn't do that." He tugs the sleeves of his jumper down even further over his wrists. He can't help but think of his mum's face when they were talking about suicide. She'd said she'd never get over it, and Louis couldn't do that to her. He couldn't ever, ever do that to her. He doesn't want to die. He wants it to stop hurting, but he still wants to be fucking alive. He always, always wants to be alive. He just wants it not to hurt anymore. 

"Then what is it? Cos there's blood on your wrist. What have you got under control?"

Because the thing is, Niall's there for all of them, in his way. He's open and bright and easy where Louis is forced and dulled because of his depression. Niall refracts, but Louis absorbs. Louis steals the light from the day, and Niall reflects it back. It hurts. But Niall's fragile too, too easy and open to protect himself sometimes, and Louis' put that look on his face. That fear.

"It's all right," Louis says, folding his arms, and he tries to sound as nonchalant as he can, as bright and breezy on the outside as he's sad and terrified and scared on the inside. "Like, it's fine. Don't look at me like that."

"I don't know how to look at you. I don't know what's wrong and you won't tell me. Liam was so worried about you, and you told him you were all right. You made us stop asking."

"I just—" Louis has to force himself to look like he's okay. He's so, so tired. "I scratch, all right? I scratch myself. It's all right. It's not like I'm cutting myself or anything. My mum knows about it, and Nick knows about it, and it's all sorted, all right? You don't need to worry. It's totally under control."

"But you're bleeding," Niall says. "And you won't show me. I don't—why would you scratch yourself?"

Louis sits back down on the end of the bench. His bag's between him and Niall. "Mum gave me all these leaflets about self harm," he says finally. He's worn out. The big clock on the wall says there's still five minutes before the others are due, but they're always late anyway. "None of them really talk about scratching. It's all cutting and banging your head off walls. I've never even thought about getting a razor blade and doing it. I wouldn't."

"But you hurt yourself," Niall says, and his voice's quiet. 

"It's not—it's not properly hurting myself," Louis says, wrapping his arms around himself. "I can't even do that right."

"But you're bleeding. I saw it. You won't show me, but I saw it." He looks like he might cry. Louis hates that. He hates that so much.

Louis looks down at his lap. "It hurts in my head," he says, and his voice sounds small. "It hurts so much and I hate it. I hate it. I hate that I'm such a fuck up. I get so angry."

"At who?"

"Me, obviously." Who else would he be getting angry at? There's only him. He's the only one of them who's fucking everything up. He wishes he'd picked somewhere else to scratch, somewhere no one else could see. His thigh, perhaps. God, he wishes he hadn't thought that. He can't let that happen. 

"It's not obvious."

Louis doesn't say anything for a minute, and then he very, very slowly rolls up his sleeve, and shows the inside of his wrist to Niall. There are little spots of drying blood along one long scratch down his wrist. He just—hadn't noticed that happening. "You've got nothing to worry about," he says, but in reality, he wants Niall to be able to stop him from doing it again. He can't do it by himself. He wishes someone could just wave a magic fucking wand. "You can't die from that. I'm not slitting my wrists."

"Don't fucking joke about it," Niall says, and his voice cracks as he gently takes Louis' arm in his hand, angling it better. He's so careful with him, like Louis is breakable. Louis isn't breakable. He's broken, and there's no point being gentle. It's like shutting the gate after the bull's upped sticks and moved to Cornwall. "Does it hurt?"

Louis shrugs again. "A bit," he says. It hurts now; or rather, it itches. He wants to scratch the itch away. He clenches his fist in his jumper instead. All of the frustration from the weekend not going as well as he'd wanted to is balled up in his chest. "I don't notice I'm doing it. It's all right, though. I'm fucked up but it's okay." 

Niall doesn't seem to believe him, and even though Louis is lying, he's sort of annoyed by Niall seeing through him. He'd wanted to be better at pretending than this. Niall touches a fingertip very gently to the tattooed birds underneath the reddened scratches on his arm. "I thought this was supposed to be us. It is, isn't it?" he asks, after a while. "The five of us?"

All of a sudden, there's a sob caught in Louis' throat, when seconds earlier he'd been fine. It's like Niall's peeled away a plaster, and underneath, Louis is rotten. He looks away, towards the clock on the wall, and tries to blink away tears. 

"Christ, Louis."

"It's not a big deal," Louis says, and he still can't look at Niall. If he looks at Niall, he'll cry, and he can't. "It's not—it's all right, okay? It's not your fault. It's just me. I'm the fucked up one." He's babbling. He can't help it. "I never meant to—It's not anyone's fault I wanted it so much, all right? It's not your fault none of you wanted it as much as I wanted it."

"No, that's not—" Niall says, and then he's stumbling over his words, trailing off and pulling Louis into a hug, shoving their bags off the bench so he can wrap his arms around Louis' shoulders and Louis can hide himself in Niall's chest. He doesn't mean to let a sob escape. He doesn't mean any of it, but Niall's stroking his back, and holding him tight, and Louis wants to be all right. He wants to be all right so much it hurts just thinking about it. He's so, so frustrated by how it's all turned out, he could scream. "It's not like that, big guy. It's not like that at all. God."

"I'm sorry," Louis says, and he clings tighter. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't be," Niall says. "Please, please don't be sorry. We're sorry."

"It's not your fault you didn't want the same thing as me," Louis says, and he should pull away, but it's easier to just stay where he is, Niall rubbing his back. He's missed him so much. He's missed all of them. He just doesn't know how to get any of that back. He can't even manage a weekend of hanging out and going down the Student Union. He's scared of everything and he doesn't fucking know how not to be. "It's not any of your faults that you all, like, moved on."

"It wasn't like that," Niall says, and he kisses the top of Louis' head. Even that, he's missed. He hadn't though this weekend was going to be this hard. "I hate that you believe that. It was never instead of you. Like, what happened—it wasn't because we didn't want to be mates with you."

"Don't," Louis begs. He can't go through this again. There are a million unanswered questions in his head, and he doesn't know how to stop thinking about any of them. All he can hear is his mum's voice in his head, telling him to try and put it all behind him and move on, but he doesn't know how. He's so fucking angry at himself for not being able to. He's making everything worse again, and he doesn't know how to make it stop. He was supposed to be fixing shit this weekend, and all he's doing is making it worse. He's such a fucking idiot. "Please don't."

"We've missed you loads," Niall goes on, like Louis hasn't begged him to stop. "It's not been the same without you. You've always been in the middle of everything we've done."

Except that bit's a lie, because Louis had been on the outside for weeks before he went home. He pulls away, wiping his eyes. He can't start crying now. He's got to make them believe he's doing better. 

"Like, us being mates with other people, it was supposed to be as well as you, not instead of. And we've talked about this, the four of us, and we've talked about how to make sure it doesn't happen again. So you won't feel like this again."

That's worse than any of it. Imagining them, sitting down together, the four of them without him, talking about ways to avoid Louis being a total fucking fuck up, and how they can hide the fact they want to be friends with people who aren't him. He wishes he could untangle all of this stuff in his head and know the right way forward, because there's a part of him that wants to lock his friends into this friendship, make them stay friends, the five of them together, even though he knows it's wrong to force them to stick with him. "No, it's fine, you don't have to—"

"No," Niall says. "Stop it. You're our best mate. You guys are the best friends I've ever had in my life. We all want to be friends with you. We want it. We've missed you like crazy. We want you back. So we're going to figure out how to fix this. We've decided."

Louis hates that. He hates it. He stays where he is, though, arms wrapped around himself. He doesn't say anything. He wishes he could untangle the mess in his head, the _best friends I've ever had in my life_ with his constant refrain of _I've never felt more alone._ He is so, so sick of the repetition, of the constant cycling through the same destructive thought processes in his head, of not being able to move on and find a way through. He is so fucking sick of treading water. He's so sick of this stupid fucking depression. 

"Lou—" Niall says, carefully, after a minute. "This—you hurting yourself? Were you doing it when you were here? Before you went home?"

Louis shrugs. He wipes his hands on his shorts. He still feels like all the rottenness inside of him is exposed to the air, and that hurts too. "I don't know," he says, trying to be honest because he doesn't know what else to do. "I don't know when it started. But, like, I don't think it was a big deal before I went home. I think it just got worse. I think you're all right. It's not your fault."

Niall looks hurt. "I wasn't—"

"It's all right." Louis taps the football against the end of the bench. He does it again, the other foot this time. "This isn't how I thought this weekend was going to go. I thought I'd be less fucked up. I thought I was getting better. Was wrong about that, too." He kicks the ball so that it rolls into Niall's foot. "I don't know how to get better, and I hate this. I'm sick of talking about how fucked up I am. Like, every time I try and take one fucking step forward, it turns out I'm taking a million backwards at the same time."

"I don't think you are," Niall says, which is stupid because Louis hasn't cried in days, and then he comes back to uni and he's crying again, in front of his friends, and all he'd wanted to do was prove to them all he was all right, and well enough to come back. He doesn't want to go back home and hide in his bedroom forever. He wants _this_ , to come back, to be with his friends, and to see Nick, and to get his life back on track. He doesn't want any of the rest of it, the voice in his head telling him he isn't good enough, the lack of control over the way he reacts to anything and everything, the fear in his chest that's stealing his life from him. He doesn't want the scratches on his wrist and the constant, mind-numbing, desperate sadness that lies heavy against his skin, and he doesn't want to feel the weight of it dragging behind him with every step forward. 

He wants to laugh at shit that's funny, and get pissed off, and play footie with his friends. He wants to mess about and hand his seminar exercises in at the last minute and to stay up all night to get drunk with his mates. He wants cups of tea watching _Neighbours_ , and to hang out with Eleanor, wrapped up under her duvet watching old episodes of _Friends_ on her TV. He wants arguments about _The Avengers_ and who drank the last of the milk. He wants trips to the all-night garage at one in the morning to buy squirty cream and tins of mandarin oranges because he and Harry have a craving. He wants the desperate rush to get an essay in on time, late nights in the library, drunken walks home from the pub with Liam's arm around his shoulder, playing football with Niall in the middle of the road, hanging round Zayn's arms as they piggy back race down the hill. 

He wants to go to the Student Union with Nick and dance; he wants to get drunk and kiss him in the middle of the dance floor on a Friday night, and he wants Nick to kiss him back. He wants to meet him for breakfast, and hang out with him at lunchtime, and text him from boring lectures. 

He wants to stay up really late with Harry talking about the future, and listen to Liam go on and on about Sophia, and fight with Niall about the location of the best place on the planet. He wants to phone his mum for a chat, and send silly text messages to Lottie and Fizz, and get drunk with Stan for no reason other than it's a day that ends in Y. 

He wants a boyfriend, and his best friends, and a uni degree, and he wants his fucking brain back. He really, really wants his fucking brain back.

He kicks the ball at Niall. "I want to come back," he says, and his voice catches. "I'm so sorry I fucked it all up. I want to come back."

Niall stops the ball with his foot. His face curves into a smile. It's sad at the edges, but then, so is Louis'. "Good-oh," he says. "Now we've just got to get you better, all right?"

"Yeah," Louis says, and he thinks that Niall knows as well as he does that that's easier said than done. 

~*~

The lads are only ten minutes late in the end, and it doesn't matter all that much since there's only the five of them to mess about with the football. Harry launches himself at Louis when he arrives. Zayn gives him a one-armed hug, and Liam grins at him, relief written all over his face. 

"Sorry I ran off last night," Louis says, forcing himself to smile. "Was properly knackered."

They all know that's a lie; or rather, not the whole truth. Harry had seen him passed out on Nick's sofa last night, plastered to Nick's side, probably snoring on Nick's shoulder. Maybe he'd told the others. 

"You should have said," Liam says, coming over to bump his elbow into Louis'. "You should have said you didn't want to go out."

"I know," Louis says, as lightly as he can manage. "But that's what being a student's all about, isn't it? Getting drunk and going down the Union. Got to get back on the horse."

They all look fucking sad, is the thing. Like they all know he's not up to it. 

"No," Liam says. "That's not what it's all about. You don't have to do that. I didn't do that when I got here."

"I know," Louis says, although Liam shedding his boring, pre-uni attitude towards alcohol had been Louis' crowning glory of their first few weeks at uni. He kicks the ball towards Liam, who stops it with his foot. "Come on, we've only got another forty-five minutes. Can't become Real Madrid if we don't put the hours in. Come on, Zayn, put your phone down."

"Fine," Zayn complains. Poor Zayn, it's still the middle of the night for him. He drops his stuff down onto the bench and goes to stand in the middle of the pitch. "Come on, then. If we're doing this, then let's do it."

He's missed them all so, so much. He wants his life back. He wants it all back, the crap bits and the good bits and the bits in between. He wants it back. 

Louis squares his shoulders, tugs his jumper down over his wrists, and goes for the ball. 

~*~

"How's things?" his mum asks, when Louis answers his phone. They've just got in from the leisure centre, and everyone's dumping their stuff on the floor in the hall and being loud. Someone's farted and Niall is adamant it isn't him. 

Louis takes the steps two at a time up to his bedroom. "All right," he says. "Just got back from playing footy."

"Bit cold for football, isn't it? Ground's freezing."

"They'd booked a pitch at the leisure centre."

"Excellent planning," his mum says. "How's everything else? How was last night? How are you feeling?"

Louis shrugs. He doesn't want to prove her right and tell her he shouldn't have come, that he isn't up to it. "It's hard," he says finally. "But everyone's trying."

"That's good. And you got there all right? No problems?"

"This is you trying to be subtle and ask about Nick, isn't it?"

"Queen of subtlety, I am," she says. "How is he?"

Louis looks down at his lap. "He's so kind to me," he says finally. "I don't think I deserve it."

"I do."

"Mum—"

"It's all right. We don't have to talk about it now. I know it's hard, and you've probably got all kinds of plans with your friends."

"I slept with him," he says. "Last night."

There's a pause. "Oh. Okay." She clears her throat. "Was he kind to you then, too?"

Louis doesn't scratch his wrist. "Yeah."

"Good." 

"They're making Christmas dinner for me. I'm supposed to be helping."

"All right. Your dad's coming over in a minute to pick up the girls. Will you text him once you're done with the meeting tomorrow? He wants to know as much as I do."

"Okay. And I'll leave you a message, right?"

"Right. And I'll call you back in between sessions. This is the worst timed conference ever. I'm so sorry I can't be there with you, love."

"It's all right. You don't get to go to many of them. I can do this. Nick's going to come with me, anyway. I'm going to give him your list and he's going to ask the ones I forget to."

"That's good of him."

"He's really nice."

"He sounds it. Look, your dad's at the door. I'll give you a ring later, all right? This evening, once I'm at the hotel. Give me a ring if you need to."

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you too. You're doing really well, baby."

"Yeah," he says. It's a lie; he's not. He scratches at his wrist. "Bye, Mum."

He sits on the bed with his phone in his lap for another couple of minutes before he drops it on the bed and goes to have a shower, wash away the last twenty-four hours under the heat of the spray. 

~*~

He ends up with Liam and Zayn in the kitchen later on. He sits on the stool by the counter, failing to wrap little chipolatas in bacon whilst Liam studies his printed-off Christmas dinner schedule. Everything is a glorious, unmitigated disaster. Harry and Liam have had a set-to over crossheading sprouts, and now Harry is hiding in his bedroom, Niall's playing Christmas music at a hundred decibels in the living room with the door purposefully shut, and Zayn's trying to get into a bag of frozen roast potatoes. 

"We're not going to eat until February," Liam says, a little desperately. "We were supposed to have the turkey in the oven at eleven thirty."

Louis glances at the kitchen clock, and does his best to ignore the _how to start a conversation about mental health_ poster on the wall underneath. It's twenty past one, and the turkey's been in the oven for approximately seven minutes. He had thought they were having roast chicken, but apparently that had been a row and a half on Friday, and now they're having turkey, and Harry's still sulking. 

"Harry's supposed to be doing the parsnips," Liam goes on. "Zayn, stop that, you're supposed to be doing the stuffing."

Zayn rolls his eyes. "I don't even go here," he says, but he's opening the packet of Paxo sage and onion stuffing. "This says we can microwave it in, like, two sets of two minutes. Why am I making it now?"

"Because my guide says so," Liam says, waving his sheaf of papers in Zayn's direction. "And because I think we're supposed to be making it from scratch."

"I'm not making it from scratch," Zayn says. "Do we want balls? Don't answer that, Lou."

"I always want balls," Louis says, wrapping another chipolata in bacon. "Balls, balls, balls."

"Nick's balls," Zayn says, elbowing Louis in the side. 

Louis doesn't mean to go red. His depression has brought with it a kind of shyness he's never experienced before. He never used to be awkward about stuff like this, but he can't help it. "Shut up."

"No, really, what's going on between you and Nick?" Zayn shoves the kettle under the tap whilst Liam goes to the kitchen door to yell an apology to Harry up the stairs. Harry never sulks. Everyone must be more tense than they're letting on to Louis. He feels bad about that, too. 

"I don't know," Louis says, elbowing Zayn back and determinedly not thinking about the rest of it. "He's just, I don't know, really nice, all right?"

"And how are his balls?" Liam asks, coming back over and poking Louis in the shoulder.

"Very nice," Louis says. He taps his foot into Liam's ankle. He'd forgotten what it was like to constantly be in and out of each other's spaces, constantly poking and nudging and bumping into each other. He'd always liked that. "His balls are lovely."

Zayn grins at him as he puts the kettle onto boil. "That's good. That's really good."

"Yeah," Liam agrees, stepping back and out of the way. "Really good, Lou."

"I never knew you were so interested in Nick's balls before." He knows what they're saying, but he's embarrassed to talk about it. Nick's this big, gentle, kind presence in his life, and it means such a lot to him, but he doesn't know how to express that. He's scared Nick's going to stop wanting him; he's scared that he's relying to much on Nick, and once Nick's left him, he's going to stop being able to cope. He's scared because he can't cope by himself. 

He's scared because of how much he likes him. 

"Can you talk to him about stuff?" Zayn asks, and maybe there isn't any condemnation in what Zayn's saying, but Louis feels it anyway. 

He shrugs his shoulder. "Yeah," he says. He's never concentrated so much on chipolatas before. "He's easy to talk to."

"Good," Liam says. When Louis glances at him, there's relief written all over his face, and Louis can't tell if it's because he's got someone to talk to, or because Liam's glad that the responsibility hasn't fallen to him. Louis knows that if it's the second one, it's not because Liam doesn't want to help. Liam always wants to help, but they've stumbled through the last few weeks, the two of them, and Louis just wants this rift between the two of them to fix itself. He doesn't want to make it worse by revealing the rottenness inside of him he's trying so hard to hide. "I'm glad you and him have got it together."

"I don't know that we have," Louis says, studiously lining up his finished pigs in blankets. "It's just a thing. We're not—we're not anything."

"Has he told you that that's all it is?" Liam sounds a little outraged on his behalf, and Louis can't help but file away that little frisson of satisfaction he gets from Liam getting puffed up in defence of him. He might wish that he didn't react like that, but nevertheless, it still feels nice. He can't decide if he should feel that or not. He doesn't know. 

"No—look, I don't know, all right? He's really nice, but I'm a total fuck up. It's like treading on eggshells in case I'm going to go mental. No one in their right mind would sign up for that, okay. Not even Nick. Because this might be it, all right?" He hates saying this out loud, because it's this shit secret he's hiding away inside, and he's always known that you don't just reveal your flaws. "I might not get better. I might always be depressed, and I'm a handful, and I know it's not fun having to deal with me like this. He might want to shag me now, but I come with all of this complicated shit. It's a hassle. I know that." 

"Lou—"

"All of that's true," Louis says. He makes a grab for Liam's print out. "What's next?"

"You won't be like this forever," Liam says, and Louis hates that. He hates it. 

"I might be. You don't just, like, it's not flu. It's not a cold and one day you stop coughing. It's like—" He knows he's getting a bit het up. He's just so frustrated with himself for not being better. "It's always fucking there, all right? This stupid voice in my head telling me I'm not good enough. I want to be happy again, and I don't know how, all right? That's what it's like. For fucking ever."

Zayn slides an arm around Louis' waist. "You've still got us."

Louis isn't sure how much he believes that, but he wants to. He wants to believe it so much. 

"You've always got us," Liam says. 

Louis looks down at the countertop, at his rows of little pigs in blankets. "I hate this," he says. "I'm just waiting for people to leave."

"We'll tell you everyday that we won't," Liam says, and his sincerity makes Louis warm inside, but he can't tamp down the belief in his head that it won't matter, not in the long run. He's lived through it once; he's not sure he's up to it again. "It won't be like before."

"I know," Louis says. It's probably a lie. He wants there to be a space for him at uni so much, but he doesn't know how to slide back in. He's a square peg and the hole is round; he doesn't know how to fix it. "What's next?" He's keen to get back to the cooking so that they don't talk about the inside of his head anymore. He's tired of his head. 

"We need Harry to do the parsnips," Liam says, and he's already half out of the door. "I'll go and talk to him. Stop him sulking."

"Okay," Zayn says, catching Louis' wrist. It's probably a good thing, because given half a chance, he'd be following Liam upstairs. Harry doesn't sulk. "Lou, do you want to help me make dicks out of the stuffing?"

"Obviously," Louis says, and he waits until he can hear Liam going upstairs before he nudges his elbow into Zayn's. "Harry's never sulked before."

Zayn smiles at him. It's a bit sad round the edges. He's making room on the kitchen table so that they can start shaping the stuffing into dicks and balls. "He just wanted this weekend to go right for you, that's all. That's all any of us wanted. He's a bit stressed out. It's all right."

"I didn't mean to make it harder for anyone." Louis carefully shapes a handsome dick and balls out of stuffing. 

"Harry misses you like mad. We all do. I think he just wanted a magic wand to wave to make you not depressed anymore. He's taking it out on the roast dinner."

Louis' next set of stuffing balls are more dramatic. He gives them an erection. "I miss him too. I miss all of you. I want to come back." The problem was, he'd missed them when he was here, too, a ghost on the edges of their friendship. He balls up his little stuffing dicks again, mushing them into the bowl. "Let's make five massive erections, then we can have one each."

"The rest of us can finally say we've eaten dick," Zayn says, but he obediently dumps his little balls back into the bowl, and Louis sets about dividing the mixture into five vaguely equal piles. 

"Yeah, like you and Liam haven't bumped uglies."

Zayn blushes. "That was one kiss, all right. Nothing ugly was involved."

"Just saying," Louis says. He's missed teasing Zayn. "The grass is pretty green over here on the gay side. If you and Liam wanted to give it a go."

"It was one kiss. Anyway, we've both got girlfriends."

Louis grins at that. Zayn and Liam's accidental snogging session late one night in first year was one of Louis' favourite things to needle Zayn about. Zayn always blushes so hard. Liam does the same, but it's less fun to poke him about it, because he gets all tongue-tied and trips over his words. Louis has always suspected a real, secret crush sneaking about somewhere beneath the surface, even if Liam didn't really know it. "Yeah, yeah." He waits a moment before bumping his elbow into Zayn's again. "I am trying, all right? This weekend. I'm trying."

"I know." Zayn shapes a nice, big pair of balls from the stuffing mixture. "But, like, you don't need to be able to do all the stuff you used to do to be able to come back. It's not about going to the Union on a Saturday night, being here. You know that, right?"

"I know." He doesn't know. "I just don't know what to do instead. What do people do if they're not down the Union?" He shrugs his shoulders. "I don't want to be alone all the fucking time."

Zayn stops messing with the stuffing. He hooks his foot round Louis' under the table. "You won't be. We can hang out here more, I don't know. We can figure it out."

Louis drops his gaze. "I'll be a burden. That's what I'm scared of. You all keep saying that it won't be the same as it was before, and all that means is that you're all going out of your way to fit me in. That's a burden."

"You're our best mate and we love you. Like, I don't know if you hear that when we say it to you. But it's the truth anyway. Give us a chance to make it all right. It doesn't have to be about how it was before. I miss how it was in first year, you and me. Bus one."

Louis nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak. He concentrates on making dicks out of stuffing in silence, until Liam and Harry come into the kitchen and Harry drapes himself over Louis' back. 

"Soz," Harry says, breath warm against Louis' neck. "I've been a dick."

"I've made you one out of stuffing," Louis says, and if his hands tremble when he reaches for the bag of parsnips, then no one notices. "Buck up, Hazza, parsnips wait for no man."

Harry kisses the top of his head and reaches for a potato peeler and a chopping board. He settles himself at the table next to Louis, and bumps his elbow into Louis'. "I don't care about the sprouts."

"I know," Louis says. He doesn't apologise for making everything more difficult. He rests his cheek against Harry's shoulder for a moment, and then goes back to his stuffing penises. 

Other than the ridiculously loud Christmas music, just for a few minutes they're quiet. Louis doesn't normally like quiet, but just for a minute, the inside of his head is just as quiet as they are, the four of them concentrating on preparing dinner. 

He'll take moments like this, and hold on to them tight. 

~*~

Niall comes into the kitchen halfway through the afternoon to demand they each wear a ridiculous comedy Christmas hat and some clip-on fuzzy bauble earrings, and after that, the five of them decimate a whole round box of Celebrations in ten minutes flat whilst arguing about mixing the white sauce, and still failing to come to a consensus about if you needed to cross-head sprouts. 

Louis keeps getting hugged. If it's not Harry hanging off him, it's Liam wrapping his arms around Louis' waist, or Zayn with his arm around his shoulders, or Niall coming in from Christmas central in the living room time and time again to dole out drinks and give Louis a smacking kiss on the cheek. 

The thing is: much to his surprise, Louis finds himself enjoying himself. 

He'd always loved the bickering and the nudging and the hugging, loved the way that the five of them fit together with such unpractised ease, but for so long it's been the four of them and him on the outside. It's not like he doesn't know they're all working really hard to make things normal for him, but at some point between the basting and the gravy and them making a complete fucking pig's ear of following a print-out from _The_ fucking _Mirror_ website for how to make Christmas dinner, that tightness around his chest eases. It doesn't go away—nothing can make his depression or his anxiety go away, he's found—but the fear dissipates, just a little. Even fucking up the roast potatoes, something so simple that it literally just involves opening the bag and trying to tip them round the bottom of the roasting turkey, settles him a bit. He and Liam end up trying to scoop them up from the bottom of the oven with oven mitts and plastic tongs, whilst Harry and Zayn shout instructions. There are probably black bits all over the roasties by the time they get them all in the roasting tin, and Niall takes pictures over their heads and tells them all he's putting them up on Twitter. 

It's stupid, and they're all ridiculous, and Louis can't tell exactly at which moment it happens, but happen it does. 

He stops being scared of his friends. 

He finds himself being comfortable with the noise and the bustle and the fact that they're all carefully looking after him, and making sure that he's okay. For once, that doesn't make him feel fragile and on the outside, trying to find a way in. It makes him feel like he's on the inside instead, failing to get the lumps out of the white sauce, and joining in jabbing a knife into the turkey to see if the juices run clear, and having just as little a clue as everyone else he lives with if they're going to die of food poisoning or not. It ends up with him suggesting they call their parents to find out how to know when a turkey's done, and that ends up with them all sending a video to Harry's mum and Niall's dad of them sticking the blade into the turkey, with Zayn's voice in the corner saying, _it's clear, it's clear, it's clear_ , and all of them ignoring him. 

It's just—it's nice. For so long he's been living with fear clenching around his heart, constantly telling himself that there isn't a space for him in his best friends' lives anymore, and this afternoon, just for a bit, it feels like there _is_. It feels like there's a space for him, an unforced, natural space, and he ends up texting his mum _I've missed them so much xxx_ when she texts from the service station to see if everything's still going well. He texts Nick too, to tell him the same thing, and that's nice too. Having someone to tell that isn't his mum, and isn't one of his housemates. Someone who will travel half way across the country just to have a cup of tea in a terrible station café, and who sends him awful dad jokes from his stupid Harry joke book at all hours of the day and night. Someone who wants to kiss him and save him from nights in the Student Union just because Louis isn't enjoying himself. 

When Nick sends him a text in return that says, _how are you doing? You okay?_ Louis ducks out of the kitchen with his phone and goes to sit on the stairs in the hall. 

Nick answers on the second ring. "Hiya," he says. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Louis says. He blushes a bit, thankful that Nick can't see him down the phone. "I just, like—I never said thank you for last night. For, like, leaving the Union with me and everything."

Nick lets out a breath. "That's okay," he says. "I'm sorry I didn't come over earlier."

"Don't be. Honestly. I should have said I wasn't having a good time. Like, I know that. I just have to figure out how to, you know, actually say that out loud. But, like—" He stumbles over his words. He picks at the knee of his jeans. "I had a really nice time last night. With you. So, um, thanks."

"I had a really nice time too." There's a pause. "Did I ask you if you wanted to have breakfast with me? Tomorrow? Thought I could treat you. I know it's your meeting, but before that. Get some tea and toast down you. Properly prepared, and everything."

"I'll be really anxious," Louis says, and it's the first time he's admitted it out loud. "Like, properly nervous. My hands keep shaking. I don't know how to make it stop."

"It's all right if you don't want to," Nick says gently. "It was just if you want to."

"I do want to. It's just—I'll be anxious. In case you didn't want to have breakfast with a total mental case." He doesn't say, _I'll be scared_. It's hard enough saying _anxious_ out loud. "I might not be able to eat anything. I couldn't yesterday morning before the train."

"Let me get you a cup of tea, then. I'll bring my joke book. Go on and on about rubbish so you're not thinking about the meeting. Whatever you want, really."

Louis draws his knee up to his chest. "I really like you," he says softly. "I like you so much."

He can practically hear Nick smile. "Good. Good, cos I like you right back."

"All right," Louis says. 

"I'm not pushing this, but, like, if you wanted to, you and me could go out properly. It'd be nice, saying I'm going out with you."

Warmth settles over Louis' skin like a blanket. He doesn't say anything, picking at the knee of his jeans with his thumb and fingernail. 

"You don't have to. It's all right."

"I'll think about it, okay? It's not—it's not you. I'm just a bit mental."

Nick huffs a breath. "Don't say that about yourself. Look. I'm not trying to push you into anything. I just wanted you to know it was an option, that's all."

"All right." Louis chews at his thumbnail. "What time in the morning?"

"Quarter past nine? At the West Point? I could meet you there."

"All right," Louis says again. "Are you watching X Factor later?"

"Probably. Like, it's going to be Sam. Everyone knows it's going to be Sam. I might as well not bother, but it's the X Factor, innit? How's the dinner prep coming along?"

"Disastrous." Louis sounds almost proud. He can't help it; they're his boys. His wonderful, brilliant boys. His friends. He's missed them so, so much. "We're probably not going to eat until midnight."

"Going well, then."

"I made willies out of sage and onion stuffing."

"I expected nothing less. You'll have to take a picture."

"I will." Louis goes quiet. There's a tiny, tiny part of him that wants to say _I love you_. He settles for, "See you."

"Yeah," Nick says, gentle. "Enjoy your evening, Louis."

"Yeah," Louis says, and he doesn't know what else to say. He stays there, listening to Nick breathe for the longest moment, and then he ends the call. 

Niall comes to sit next to him on the stairs after that. Louis slides his phone into the pocket of his hoodie. "You and Nick, then."

"I don't want to fuck it up," Louis says, as Niall pokes him in the side. The house is resonating with the volume of Cliff Richard's _Mistletoe and Wine_. God knows where Niall got this Christmas CD from, but it's full of all the classics. It's terrible. Louis would be proud again if he wasn't nervous of fucking things up. There's an easy-ish sense of warmth settling over his skin again, and this time it's not because of Nick. It's being here. It's like dusting off an old jacket of familiarity. "Like, where's the line between okay and being too much?" He doesn't like to admit that he can't tell the difference anymore, if he ever could. He's co-dependent and intense, he knows that. He expects too much from the people he loves. He doesn't know how to let them live their own lives. He wants all of them, all of their affection and their love and more besides. Sometimes he feels like he's one of those weird creatures from science fiction, sucking out the life from their victims until they crumble into dust. He doesn't want to turn Nick into dust. 

"Dunno," Niall says. "But he seems pretty into you. Not sure he's looking for a reason to leave."

"You never know," Louis says. "Maybe I've just managed to hide how fucked up I am from him, or something."

Niall gives him an incredulous look, and then realises what kind of face he's made, and goes bright red. 

Louis snorts a laugh. It's a real, genuine reaction. There's nothing else there. "All right. He probably knows how fucked up I am."

"Sorry, sorry," Niall says, dropping his face into his hands. "I'm a right idiot."

Louis tucks his face into Niall's shoulder, and wraps an arm around him. "No," he says. "It's okay. I'm okay." He waits a bit before he talks again. "Thanks for today. For, like, listening earlier."

Niall stops hiding his face. He twists a bit, so that he can slide an arm around Louis' shoulders. "It's all right," he says. "You know we all want to, right? We're doing this because we want to."

"What if I don't get better?" Louis asks, after a while. He's scared to say it out loud. "What if this is it? I just stay depressed."

"Dunno," Niall says. At least he's honest. "We figure out what we need to do, and we do it."

"God," Louis says. "You can't—this isn't how friends work. I can't keep on getting more fucked up and just expect you all to still be there."

"You idiot," Niall says. "That's exactly how friends work. What do you think we're going to do? Chuck you out with the rubbish cos you're sick?"

Louis shrugs. "I'm hard work."

"So's my chemistry degree. Doesn't mean I don't love it."

"It's not the same." It's not the same because he's a burden, and he's _work_ , and worse than all of that, the reason he's so different to Niall's chemistry degree is because his degree will be worth something in the end, and that voice in Louis' head keeps telling Louis he's worthless. "Your degree's worth something."

Niall, all of a sudden, looks desperately sad. "You're worth something."

"I know." He's not sure he does know, but his mum keeps telling him that that voice in his head is wrong. "I'm trying. I'm just mental. It's hard not to believe this shit." He tries to laugh it off, but it's all so fucking real to him. This voice in his head, the constant, relentless repetition of the same fucking message: _you're not good enough you're not good enough you're not worth it you're not worth it you're not good enough._ "It's like a fucking uphill struggle, you know? It's like a constant fight not to give in to it, and, like, the moment you get tired it feels like all of that work's been for nothing. Because it's always fucking there."

"What is?"

"I don't know. Not being good enough. Feeling like this. Left out and alone. Like I'm the only person on the outside and everyone's inside but me. Like, this is what's normal, and I have to work really hard to be anything different."

"That's rubbish." There's a quiet indignation to Niall's voice. He tucks his hand around Louis' knee. "It's really, really shit. I'm sorry."

Louis can't help but smile at that. His shoulders shake. "It is," he says, and he can feel the laughter start to curl in his stomach, ridiculous and untimely. "It's really, really fucking shit."

"The shittest," Niall agrees, as Louis starts to laugh. "It's the shittest of the shit."

"It's like the biggest fucking shit of all time," Louis says, and he's laughing for real now, hiding his face in Niall's shoulder.

"A monster fucking shit," Niall says. "Like, half way round the u-bend."

"God." He's still laughing. It's probably half hysterical, but he doesn't care. He's in his house with one of his best friends, freezing half to death on the unheated stairs, talking about the voice in his head and his relentless, unmitigating, doctor-defined, severe depression. "I'm a complete mental case."

"Nah," Niall says, and he tugs Louis into a hug. It's what he needs. 

"How are your other friends?" Louis asks after a minute, trying his hardest to be brave. "Are you still playing rugby?"

Niall gives him a careful look. 

"It's all right," Louis says. "I'm just trying to be a decent human being. Other people don't get horribly jealous. For five minutes, I'm going to try and be normal. Let me, won't you?"

Niall makes a face. "Have you had any more of them panic attacks?"

Louis had almost forgotten telling Niall about his panic attack. "No. I mean. Not really. Not like that one I told you about. It's all right. You can tell me about Bressie or whatever without me freaking the fuck out."

"They're not replacing you, you know."

"I know." Louis isn't sure he does know, but he's at least going to pretend. 

"They're good," Niall says. "Trying to persuade me to start playing properly. Reckon there's a space for a scrum half on the team. But, like, I haven't played since games at school."

"Yeah, but you follow it, don't you? I've seen your Ireland shirt."

"I'm Irish," Niall says. He rolls his eyes. "Of course I follow it. I want Brian O'Driscoll's name tattooed on my chest."

"Well, then. Ireland, Ireland."

"Together standing tall," Niall grins. He sings the next bit: "Shoulder to shoulder, we'll answer Ireland's call."

"We need a better anthem than _God Save the_ fucking _Queen_."

"You do," Niall agrees. "But it's different, innit? Playing, and watching. I don't know. I'll see. It's fun at the moment." He nudges his knee into Louis'. "I'm not going to stop hanging out with them, you know."

"I know. I don't want you to." Louis isn't exactly sure what he does want. In his most rational moments, all he wants is a space. A space to call his own, a piece of each of these people he loves. He doesn't know how to ask for it, or how to create it, or how to keep it. 

Or if it's fair to ask. 

"Lou."

"I'm so fucked up," Louis says. "I literally have no idea what's okay to ask for and what isn't. What's fair to want and what isn't."

Niall smiles at him then. It's a bit sad. "We can talk about it, you know. All of that."

"Does it have to be now?" This weekend's been hard enough as it is. 

"Nah," Niall says. "I was thinking, maybe before you go, we could work out some times for me and you to Skype, or something. Over Christmas. Catch up."

Louis nods. "Thanks," he says. "I'd—yeah. That'd be nice."

"Sick," Niall says, and he tugs Louis into another hug. "I've missed you, champ. Don't fucking disappear on us again, all right? You had us worried sick, not answering any of our texts or tweets or whatever."

"Promise," Louis says, and just for a moment, he gives into it. He buries his face in Niall's chest and holds on tight. 

~*~

They go in to eat lunch at six thirty-six in the evening, which is earlier than Louis anticipated eating after the hiccup with the parsnips and Harry's uncustomary sulk, and the initial delay getting the turkey in the oven. Niall has spent pretty much all afternoon—conversation on the stairs aside—in the living room, dragging what Liam seemed to think might be a wallpaper table out of the attic and setting it up for them all to eat round. 

Louis stands still in the doorway to the living room.

There are Christmas themed tablecloths, and place settings with actual plates on, and party poppers, and crackers, and the coffee table is under the window with so many drinks on Louis doesn't know where to look first. There's alcohol—as is their staple—but there are also all sorts of different cans of Coke, and bottles of limeade and cloudy lemonade and thoroughly revolting cream soda. There are cartons of Ribena and Capri-Sun pouches, and if nothing says Christmas like Ribena, then the little paper cups with Santas and reindeer on them by each plate certainly raise Ribena's game.

There are more presents under the tree in the corner than there had been yesterday, most of them wrapped neatly enough that Niall has to be responsible. 

Zayn wraps his arm around Louis' waist in the doorway.

"All right?" he asks. 

Louis doesn't trust himself to speak. He nods instead, and struggles to get his phone out of his pocket to take a picture because his fingers are trembling. He sends it to his mum, and to Nick, and then he lets Harry take his wrist and lead him over to the table. 

"We wanted it to be perfect," Harry says. 

Louis nods again. The stereo's playing Slade's _Merry Xmas Everybody_. Liam looks like he might cry. He has been co-ordinating a Christmas nightmare for the last six hours; Louis would be crying too if he'd had to herd the rest of them towards any kind of deadline. 

"Is it really all right?" Liam asks, and suddenly Louis realises he looks near tears because of Louis, and Louis feels it like a punch to the gut. "We wanted to show you how great we think you are. Cos you're our best friend and we've missed you."

"We wanted to make it up to you," Niall adds. "Give you a good memory."

Harry tucks his hand into Louis' again. "Make up for last night. And, like, everything else."

Louis bites his lip to keep from crying. He knows his eyes are wet. Slade turns into _Fairytale of New York_. "It's great," he says, and he really doesn't mean to sound choked up, but he'd wanted this more than anything he's ever wanted in his whole entire fucking life, and he'd fucked it up. He'd made such a colossal mess of it all, and he still doesn't know if it's in any way redeemable. He has no fucking clue how to fix any of it. "I missed you," he says instead. "I missed you all so much."

"God, you soppy bastard," Niall says, but he's bundling Louis up into a hug anyway, and Louis finds himself clinging to Niall, his hand finding Harry's, and the enormity of what he's done this weekend hits him like a train: coming back here alone, after weeks of not being able to cope with things like showering and shopping and eating and not hurting himself, setting himself up to fight with his department to make sure he's got a course to come back to. "The food'll go cold."

"All right," Louis says, trying to pull away, but Niall doesn't let go of him. Harry squeezes his hand before slipping away, out towards the kitchen. 

"The others will bring it all in," Niall says, and he's tugging Louis back onto the sofa, sprawling out so that Louis' back is pressed to Niall's front. "Look up, will you?"

Sellotaped to the living room ceiling are six giant pieces of paper, probably stolen from a flip chart somewhere in the university, each of them covered in Zayn's distinctive handiwork. It's the five of them, each one of them painted as a superhero. Louis is all in blue, one hand reaching out to shoot flame out of his palm, away from the others, his other hand reaching in to join the others in the centre of the painting, each of their hands layered together. 

"There wasn't a wall anywhere big enough to put them all up," Niall says. "So we went for a ceiling instead."

"Zayn did them?" Louis asks.

"Yeah. Like any of the rest of us are any good at drawing. You should have seen me earlier, trying to get them stuck up. Made myself dizzy, up the ladder with my hands above my head."

"Should have yelled," Louis says. "One of us would have helped."

"Nah," Niall says. "The surprise was better like this. You like them?"

The feeling in Louis' chest isn't exactly _like_. There's hurt there too, a tiny ripple that he can't smudge out, as familiar as the tide, the weight of his depression even stealing something from this moment, all five of them painted across the ceiling like the world is theirs for the taking. "They're fantastic," he says, in as big a voice as he can manage. He feels small, and he doesn't even know why. He raises his voice. "Zayn, they're fucking fantastic."

Zayn comes in carrying the turkey, Harry and Liam following with an ad-hoc selection of bowls containing sprouts and roast potatoes and carrots and a dish of Louis' dick-themed stuffing. Once Zayn's made room for the turkey on the table, he ruffles Louis' hair, even though he's still wearing an Ikea oven glove. He's blushing. "Come on," he says. "There's still food to bring in. It'll go cold."

"They're brilliant," Louis says again, and he gets up so that he can drape himself around Zayn's shoulders and be dragged into the kitchen, even though he doesn't feel as big as he's acting. "You're brilliant."

"Shut up," Zayn says, obviously embarrassed, but he doesn't push Louis away. Louis clings just that bit too long. 

That's just who he is. 

~*~

Dinner is long and ridiculous and stupid. They pull crackers and wear their stupid hats as they take it in turns to read out their jokes and riddles. Louis got _why does Santa have three gardens? So he can ho, ho, ho,_ which was a lot better than the one Zayn got. Zayn got _what do you call Santa's little helpers?_ And the answer was _subordinate clauses_ , which Louis didn't really get. Harry wouldn't let anyone lose their cracker jokes, instead demanding that he be allowed to keep them all for his collection. Niall swaps his magic trick for the nail clippers Harry gets, and Harry wows them all by knowing what number they're all guessing. Louis gets a yo-yo that doesn't work, and Liam gets a bouncy ball, and Zayn a fake moustache. They make Zayn wear his moustache over his own, home-grown version, and they all take pictures. They leave off carving the turkey until they can get a picture of all five of them together, all in their stupid paper crowns, making faces for Liam's phone. 

For a moment, Louis feels a part of something that's bigger than just him. It shouldn't make him want to cry, but it does. It's not entirely sad, though, and he surreptitiously wipes his eyes on his napkin as he bends down to pick up his broken yo-yo from the floor as Liam starts to carve the turkey. 

When he sits back up, Zayn bumps his knee into Louis', and doesn't move his leg away, even after they've all started to serve themselves. 

And they've done all right, for a first attempt at a roast dinner. The turkey isn't burnt and isn't all that dry, and the gravy isn't lumpy, and yes, the edges of the stuffing dicks have got a little overdone, but Louis takes great pride in saving his stuffing for last, so he can bite off his stuffing knob and eat it with his mouth open. 

"You've all eaten dick now," he says proudly. He's trying to tamp down the unnatural shyness he's still feeling. "Hey, do you want to know how to catapult sprouts?"

"Fuck, yes," Harry says, and Liam looks as excited as he could be, so Louis demands the second bag of party poppers and makes a big deal of handing them round the table so that they've all got one to hold. 

"Okay," he says, holding his up. "Squeeze it a bit so that the little disc starts to pop out. Yep, like that, Payno, then scoop out the streamers. Drape them round the nearest Harry."

"Oi," Harry says, but he doesn't complain too much about the four of them draping their streamers around his neck. He's already wearing an awful lot of them in his hair from their earlier round of party poppers, anyway. 

"Then have a break for a pig in a blanket." Louis hands round the tray of remaining chipolatas. They'd forgotten to bring them out with the turkey, so they're having them as an add-on. Niall takes three, and puts them all in his mouth at the same time. Louis is so very proud indeed. "Next, take a sprout."

"Do we have to pick an aerodynamic one?" Liam asks, hand hovering over the bowl. 

"It's a sprout, Liam-o," Louis says. "How aerodynamic can they be?"

"I don't know. Some of them are pointier. That's aerodynamic, right?"

"Okay, pick a pointy sprout."

"I think mine's pointy," Harry says. 

"Mine's the pointiest." Zayn holds his up. 

"You've chopped bits off that with your knife." Niall peers over his shoulder. "That's cheating."

"It's not cheating, it's making the most of your materials. Hey, hands off my sprout."

"If it's not cheating, it doesn't matter if you swap your sprout with mine, does it?" Niall sticks his tongue out.

"Gentlemen," Louis says. "Behave. There are enough sprouts left over for everyone to have a go. Everyone take a hold of their sprout—okay, their pointy sprout—and settle it into their party popper."

"Pointy bit up or down?" Harry asks. 

"Up. Obviously. Come on, Harry."

"Some of us aren't specialists in sprout catapulting."

"Some of us aren't trying hard enough," Louis says, and it feels easy. For the first time in months, there's a moment that feels easy. "Everyone ready? Right, hold up your party popper. Sorry, sprout catapult, thanks, Liam. Aim it at the nearest target—"

"Why's everyone pointing at me?" Harry complains, but he's laughing. He points his at Louis instead.

"Should we be aiming for faces?" Liam asks, and Louis rolls his eyes. 

"Fine, everyone avoid faces. On the count of three." They count in, _one, two, three_ , and then Louis yells _FIRE_. " _Yes_ , a direct hit." He's got Harry on the shoulder. Harry had completely missed Louis entirely, and now there's a bit of green sprout embedded in the wallpaper above the fire. Liam had aimed somewhere over Harry's head, and there's a sprout splatted into the cupboard where they keep their DVDs. "That's some force, Payne-o."

"We should have a competition to see whose sprout goes the furthest," Niall says, in a moment of complete and utter genius.

Which explains why, five minutes later, they're all bundled up against the December cold outside in the back garden, the security light switched on and all of them trying to write their initials on frozen sprouts with a purple Sharpie. 

"They're freezing," Zayn complains, which Niall scoffs at, because of course they are. They'd graduated to frozen sprouts because a) there weren't enough leftovers for them all to have a second go with, and b) there was some kind of idea that frozen sprouts would go further. 

Liam ends up trying to dry his sprout off with a tea towel so he can get the writing to stay on it, and Louis is caught up in it all, drawing a line on the paving stones in chalk for them to all stand behind. There are enough sprouts for the loser from the first round to be eliminated, and so on until there's just one sprout catapulter left standing. Louis fully intends to be that person. Niall's videoing it all with his phone, and Louis is fairly sure that means he's not paying enough attention to the aerodynamics of his chosen sprout. 

"I've got it perfect," Niall says, when Louis complains. He's busy doing a close up on Harry, who's drawing a smiley face on his sprout instead of his name. 

Louis snorts, and goes back to hip-checking Liam, who's concentrating on patting his sprout into his pre-prepared party popper catapult. Liam bumps him right back. "What do you reckon?" Liam asks. "Do you reckon it's better for the sprout to fit lightly into it, or be properly jammed in for more propulsion?"

"Literally no idea, mate," Louis says. "This is like that Top Gear episode with the mini on the ski slope."

"I love that episode," Zayn says. "Fucking sick."

"I wish we had a mini," Louis says. "And a ski slope."

"No," Liam says. "Right, everyone ready? Get behind the line."

"My hands are freezing," Harry complains, but he dutifully gets behind the line. The security light doesn't extend the full length of the garden, so Liam's got his wind-up torch to hand for investigating the winning sprout, and Niall's got his Maglite in his pocket, for back up. 

After an argument about whether it's better to point the party popper up in the air or straight ahead to allow the sprout to go further (no definitive conclusion reached), Niall counts them in. Louis angles his up in the air and lets it go with a shout. 

To be fair, it might not have been the best idea in the world to shoot green sprouts into the grass in the dark, but after five minutes, all the sprouts have been located, even though Harry ends up in the Hydrangea bush with a Maglite for two minutes before he finds his. Niall is the surprise loser, but Louis suspects that might have been on purpose, because he seems quite happy to go and grab a seat from the kitchen so he can stand on it and record the whole thing on his phone. 

Liam goes out next, which is also a surprise, but it does mean they have a judge for the next two rounds. Harry falls over his own feet clambering into the Hydrangea in round three, but even his smiley-faced sprout has gone further than Zayn's. 

Zayn retires inside to watch out of the window, and he might have the right idea because it's fucking freezing outside. 

"We should have a fire," Louis says, "like men do."

"Roar," Harry says, bumping his elbow into Louis'. "Do you think we could make fire?"

"Purely with the power of our testosterone," Louis says, patting his frozen sprout into his party popper. "Come on, baby, do Daddy proud."

"Stop talking to your sprout, Tommo," Liam says. He's wearing a lot of discarded party popper streamers like a scarf.

"There's nothing in the rules about wishing my sprout luck," Louis points out. "Harry's drawn little stars on his."

"Fine. Line up, Harry, get that foot behind the line."

"It was an accident."

"You giant cheat," Louis says. He does his best to sound scandalised. "You should have a foot knocked off your score for that."

"It's fucking freezing," Zayn yells, from inside. "Get on with it. I want pudding."

"Fine." Louis rolls his eyes, and bumps his fist into Harry's. "May the best man win."

"Indeed," Harry says, quite seriously, and then Liam counts them in, and they launch their sprouts. 

It takes them seven minutes to find them this time, and Louis is horrified to find out that Harry's sprout is nestled quite comfortably in the soil by the back fence, whilst his own sprout is quite forlornly weeping its second place in the middle of the lawn. 

"Never mind," Harry says, patting his shoulder. "You can share the prize with me."

Louis brightens up. "What's the prize?"

"We don't have to make the Christmas pudding," Harry says, and Louis laughs as they stumble inside, leaving their party popper detritus in the garden for someone to pick up the following morning. 

Louis has had fun. It's quite an unusual feeling; it doesn't push the depression away, or turn it off. It's there, just like it always is, nestled in his chest like a particularly chilly frozen sprout all of his own, but for a few minutes it hadn't been up-front and centre-stage. Maybe this is what it's going to be like, trying to negotiate the rest of his life with his frozen depression-sprout just there to be worked around. It sounds tiring. He kicks the door closed behind them as they pull off their coats in the back porch, kicking off their shoes as they trip into the kitchen. 

"Where's Niall?" Louis asks. Zayn and Liam are reading the instructions on the back of the Christmas pudding sleeve. 

"Putting the videos on YouTube," Liam says, distractedly. "He also says that McFly did an instructional video for how to microwave a Christmas pudding, so he's loading it on his laptop so we can watch."

"Great," Louis says, as Liam goes to the bottom of the stairs to yell for Niall. "You do that, and me and Harry are going to pick what we're going to watch on the telly."

"I was going to make tea," Harry says, already with the kettle in his hand, and _no_ , Louis is not going to allow that. 

"You make terrible tea," he says. "You go and pick a DVD, and _I'll_ make the tea." The fact that none of them are really drinking is the giant elephant in the room that clearly all of them are ignoring. He wonders if they had a conversation about how much of a fucking freak show he is at the moment. He puts the kettle on to boil. Liam's given up yelling and has wandered off to get Niall from upstairs; it's just Louis and Zayn in the kitchen. "Did you know that alcohol lowers the serotonin levels in the brain?"

Zayn looks up from his cardboard sleeve. "What?"

"The doctor told me," Louis says. "When he told me I was depressed. When he said it was severe. Apparently serotonin helps regulate your mood."

"Is that why you're not—"

"No," Louis says. He shakes his head, and gets out five mugs. There's barely any counter space after their cooking extravaganza. "I don't know why I'm not drinking. I'm just, like, anxious. Not like..." he trails off. "It was the Union that made me all freaked out. All those people. That's fucked up, right? It wasn't the alcohol. Last week I couldn't even go out of the house to the supermarket. I just—I couldn't."

"Lou—"

"That's properly fucked up, isn't it? Being scared of the stupid supermarket." He still hasn't warmed up properly from being outside. He rubs his arms. 

"It's not fucked up," Zayn says. He gets the teabags out of the tin on top of the microwave. "You got here, didn't you?"

"With Nick's help. He had to come and meet me half way. That's fucked up."

"It's a big fucking deal," Zayn says. "Don't think we don't know just you getting here is a big fucking deal."

Louis ignores that. He can't think about that. He concentrates on putting teabags into mugs. "You don't have to not drink in front of me, is what I'm saying. You can drink whatever the fuck you want."

"Okay," Zayn says. "But, like, we're not going to go overboard tonight. That's what we decided."

"Right," Louis says. He can't look up from the counter. "But you don't have to, like, on my account."

"Okay," Zayn says again. "But we're still not going to tonight."

Louis nods. The kettle's making a lot of noise, like it's about to take off. He's overfilled it. "Do you think I brought it on myself? This. Depression. From drinking. I could have fucked my own brain up. Is that what the doctor was saying? I keep thinking it."

Zayn shakes his head. "No," he says, and he wraps an arm around Louis' waist. 

"I might have done."

"No," Zayn says again. "I think you were just—I think it's just the luck of the draw. And you got unlucky. I think it can just make it worse sometimes. I don't think it causes it."

"I might have—I keep blaming myself. Things I could have done differently. Times when I could have been less obsessed with being friends with you lot, like."

Zayn slides a hand into Louis' hair and pulls him into a hug. "Don't," he says. "Please don't."

"Don't what?"

"Bus one," Zayn says, and it's their shared tattoo again, the one they got because they used to spend so much time in each other's rooms in halls last year. "I wanted it too. I'm sorry that I, like, didn't ever make it clear how much it meant to me. Having that. Having you lot. I got, like—I love Perrie. But I should have, like, made time for everything here too. I'm sorry I didn't make time for us to do that again, this year. Bus one."

It makes Louis feel so small and insignificant, this piece of people's lives that everyone had forgotten about. "It's all right," he says, pulling away. His wrist itches. The kettle finishes boiling and he reaches for it, pouring water into each of their mugs. "I need to tell you something, too. I told Niall this morning. The others don't know yet."

He can hear Liam upstairs in Niall's room, and Harry pounding up the stairs to join them. He's only got a couple of minutes at the most. He hadn't known he was going to end up telling Zayn anything. 

"What is it?"

"It's under control," Louis says, which is a lie, but he doesn't know how to say otherwise. "Like, you don't have to worry about me."

"Lou—"

"I hurt myself," Louis says quickly. "I scratch myself until I bleed."

Zayn looks confused. "Like—"

"It's self harm," Louis says. "It's crap self harm, like." He tries to laugh. "It's not life threatening or anything. You don't need to worry about it. But I'm telling you anyway. Sorry. I shouldn't be putting more shit on you. Just when you think I can't get any more fucked up, right? Bam. More. I only told Niall because he saw a bit of blood, like, on my arm."

"This morning."

Louis nods. There's a little bit of paper stuck to the wall above the kettle with instructions for how each of them take their tea on. Louis knows them all off by heart, but he likes that it's there. He gets the sugar out of the cupboard. 

"You were bleeding, like, today. This morning."

Louis spoons sugar into some of the mugs. "A bit."

"So you've been self-harming this weekend."

"Don't call it that." Louis shrinks under Zayn's frown. "It makes it sound like it's a big deal. It's not. Like—I just, I'm sick of secrets, all right? That's all it is."

"It's what it is, though, isn't it?" Zayn looks like he might cry. "You're hurting yourself. Today. You did it today. And we thought you were all right. You swore to us you didn't want to hurt yourself. You made us stop talking about it."

"They're coming down," Louis says, because he can hear Liam and Niall and Harry on the landing upstairs. "It's fine, I promise. I swear. My mum knows and Nick knows, and now you and Niall knows, and it's not a big deal. It's not—it's not like the stuff you were worried about. I'd never do anything like that. I'm not suicidal, I swear. Please don't tell the others. I'll tell them, I promise."

"Louis, fuck."

"I'm just a fuck up, okay? I know. But it's small. It's small, this. It's not something big. You don't need to worry." Desperation is starting to twist in his stomach. Fear, as well. Anxiety. He feels sick. His wrist itches. He has to clench his fists not to scratch.

"I don't know what to say. Or do. I wish you didn't feel like this. But you said you weren't hurting yourself."

"I know," Louis says, one eye on the door. They're coming down the stairs. He leans past Zayn to the fridge for the milk. "I'm sorry. Please, leave it." He wishes he hadn't said anything. Zayn looks like he might cry. Louis did that. 

"That video's amazing," Harry says, coming into the kitchen, brandishing two DVDs. "It's just McFly showing you how to microwave a Christmas pudding. Well, Harry and Dougie."

"Told you. They've got this other one where they see how many sprouts they can fit in their mouths," Niall's saying, following him in. "McFly are brilliant."

"We haven't got enough sprouts left over for that," Harry says. He looks sad about it. "Maybe next year."

"Maybe," Niall says. "Liam, do you feel like you're all, like, prepared and everything? For the microwaving."

"Getting there," Liam says. "Oh, you made tea, amazing."

"I had to stop Harry from doing it," Louis says, and his voice doesn't catch. Zayn is looking down at the floor, hands by his sides. Louis nudges mugs towards each of his boys. "What DVDs have you got?"

" _The Muppet Christmas Carol_ ," Harry says, "and _Love Actually_."

Zayn looks up at that. Louis can't look at him. He can't. 

"Who owns _Love Actually_?" Louis asks, even though he knows the answer. He just has to stop Zayn looking at him like he's breakable. Like he's broken. 

"It's mine," Harry says. "I like it."

"I vote _Muppets_ ," Louis says. "Come on. Where's that box of Quality Street?"

"I'm making Christmas pudding," Liam says. "You'll ruin your dessert."

"I've got room for both," Louis says loudly, already nudging Harry into the hall. He risks a glance back at Zayn, muttering, _I'm fine_. He's begging Zayn to stop looking at him like that. He just can't put it into words so that Zayn will understand. He says, _I'm all right_ , instead. It's not enough. 

"Today, though, Lou," Zayn whispers. 

"It's all right. I swear."

Zayn nods, and Louis plasters a smile on his face. The frozen sprout in his chest makes his chest feel cold. Everything feels cold. He's cold. 

Niall's already moving the wallpaper table out of the middle of the room, pushing it up against the window so that the sofa and the armchair has an unimpeded view of the TV. Harry brings in the bright pink bean bag from the hall, and sprawls in it in the middle of the room. 

"Baggsy the bean bag."

Louis rolls his eyes. "You always baggsy the bean bag."

"It's my favourite," Harry says. He beams up at Louis, and wraps his hand around Louis' ankle. "Thanks for the tea."

Louis can't help but smile down at him, even though anxiety is making his stomach turn over. "Any time, Hazza."

Harry rubs his thumb over the inside of Louis' ankle. "I'm glad you're here."

Louis nods. "Me too." He is, the hole in his chest where his depression's taken root aside. 

"Sit next to me," Niall says, patting the seat next to him on the sofa. Louis sits down carefully. 

Zayn nudges his foot into Harry's thigh. "Give me the DVD, Haz."

He keeps shooting Louis these hurt, worried looks, and Louis doesn't know what expression to wear on his face. When Niall leans forward to mess with Harry's hair, Louis gets his phone out and texts Zayn. _I'm fine. Don't worry. Promise xx_

It's a bit of a lie. He puts his phone in his lap and joins Niall in plaiting bits of Harry's hair. Harry is docile in a way that Louis' little sisters aren't; Louis has been able to plait hair since he was a little boy and Lottie had hair long enough to put up, but his sisters are wrigglers. Harry is placid. By the time Liam comes in balancing five bowls of Christmas pudding and white sauce on a High School Musical lap tray, the DVD menu is playing loudly, and Harry has eight little plaits in his hair, and Louis hasn't looked up and met Zayn's eyes once. 

"Here you go," Liam says, finding space on the table for his tray, and then handing out each of the bowls in turn. He comes and sits down next to Louis on the settee with his bowl, bumping his knee into Lou's as Zayn presses play on the DVD and the overture starts. "Eat up."

Louis nods. He feels shaky inside. Zayn's texted him back: _sorry if I'm making you upset. I'm just worried about you. I hate that you're hurting yourself._

Niall and Harry start singing as soon as the music starts; _when a cold wind blows, it chills you, chills you to the bone. And there's nothing in nature that freezes your heart, like years of being alone._

There's a lump in his throat. He puts his spoon down in his bowl. 

"Lou—" Zayn says. 

"Can we pause it?" Louis says. "Please."

"What's wrong?" Liam asks, sliding his hand over Louis' knee. "Are you okay?"

"I hurt myself," Louis says. "I just told Zayn. Niall knows."

"What kind of hurt?" Harry asks, sitting up. He looks hurt too. Hurt and worried. 

Louis shrugs a shoulder. 

"Self harm," Zayn says. "He self harms."

"It's not proper self harm." Louis' voice shakes. So does his hand. "You don't need to look like that."

Niall slips his hand into Louis'. "It's all right," he says. "You don't have to get upset. We're all, like—" He stops. "We love you."

"What kind of self harm?" Harry asks again. It's not fair that Harry looks this upset. Louis can't deal with that. 

"Just—scratching."

"I thought self harm was cutting yourself," Liam says. "With, like, a razor or something. A girl at school did it."

"I don't do that. It's just scratching."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Liam says carefully, and Louis had expected him to react differently to this. More outraged. More worried. He'd been the one crying in the toilets worrying about whether Louis was suicidal or not. But he's just being careful, and quiet, and kind. "Does scratching even count?"

Louis can feel his hand getting sweaty in Niall's. He's trembling as he pulls his hand away. "It counts," he says. He pulls up his sleeve. His wrist is scratched red, and it's inflamed around the scabbed lines he's scratched open again. 

"How come Niall knew already?" Harry asks, staring at Louis' wrist, and Louis can't imagine how low they've sunk that he's managed to drag a comment like that out of Harry. His dear friend, Harry, who'd spent part of the afternoon sulking over parsnips; Harry, who never sulks.

"He saw," Louis says. "This morning. He saw it bleeding."

Niall takes his hand again. Louis holds on for dear life. Everyone's staring at his wrist. 

"You're still doing it," Liam says. 

Louis nods. 

"But why?" Liam looks hurt now. Louis hates that he can do this to people. It's bad enough that he's hurting so much he can't keep it all inside any more, but it's worse that he gets to share it out like this, infecting everyone. His stupid fucking brain. 

"I don't know. I didn't even know I was doing it for ages."

"But it must hurt." Liam keeps staring at Louis' lap. Harry's gone quiet. "Why do you do it if it hurts?"

Louis shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know."

"Is it cos you feel like you deserve it?" Zayn asks. "If it hurts."

Liam looks like he's been hit. Louis just shrugs again. He can't deal with the fall out of saying _yes_. 

"Leave him alone, all right?" Niall doesn't let go of his hand. "He's told us and that's great. Totally fucking brave, right? We don't need to go over and over it tonight."

Louis doesn't feel brave. "Sorry."

Liam wraps an arm around his shoulders. He's so careful with him. Louis wants to give in to it and slump into Liam's hug. It's a physical effort not to. "You can ring any of us at any time," Liam goes on. "Anytime it feels like you want to. You can ring us."

Louis nods. He's not going to, and he feels like a failure for even admitting that he does it. 

"Lou." Zayn sounds careful too. "I'm sorry, all right? That I made you upset."

"It's all right." Louis doesn't cry. He doesn't cry at all. Liam kisses his temple, and Louis gives into it and curls into Liam's side. "Sorry," he says again, cheek pressed to Liam's jumper. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Liam says. "Please, don't be."

Louis keeps his hand in Niall's. 

"Does Nick know?" Harry asks. "And your mum?"

Louis nods. "Yeah."

"All right," Harry says. 

"Can we put the film back on now?" Louis asks.

It takes Louis a long time after that to stop shaking. Liam and Niall don't let go of him, not until the film ends. 

It's Liam and Zayn who persuade him to have an early night after that. Louis is exhausted anyway, worn out from everything, unable to think of a reason to tell them no. Every time he thinks about the meeting in the morning, he can feel himself getting het up again, anxiety taking root in his chest, nesting on the shoulders of his frozen sprout of depression. They were supposed to be doing Christmas presents, but they decide to do it tomorrow instead, after Louis' meeting. At lunchtime. 

Louis still can't help but think back to the previous incarnation of himself, the one where he was never the first to bed, and pooh-poohed anyone who tried to leave before the party ended. 

"All right," he says, after Zayn brings him a mug of Cadbury's Fudge hot chocolate with an awkward smile. "I'll go to bed."

"It'll be all right tomorrow, you know," Zayn says, leaning in to kiss Louis' forehead. Louis knows it's an apology too, and Louis wants to tell him that he doesn't need to apologise, but he can't find the words. He's so tired. He nods instead, and hugs Liam and Niall good night. "However it goes. We'll figure it out."

"Yeah," Louis says, because he has to say something. "All right. Good night, guys. Thanks."

Harry follows him upstairs and into his bedroom, hot chocolate in hand. "We never got to talk," he says, sitting down on the end of Louis' bed. "Can I stay with you tonight?"

It's not like they haven't shared a single bed multiple times before. It's not like Louis hasn't spent the past couple of hours worried about being awake and scared all night and being alone. "Yeah, all right," he says, and starts to get undressed, dropping his hoodie on the floor. It's awkward between them both like it's never been before. He goes over to his wallet and takes his anti-depressant, swallowing it down dry as Harry strips down to his pants and his t-shirt. He's so tired.

He doesn't hide his wrist away. 

There had been too much of a painful parallel between Scrooge's loneliness on screen and the hole in Louis' chest where his friends used to be; there's a part of him that wants to cry with exhaustion at just how hard this weekend's been, even the good parts. He's fraught and on edge, and it's not just fear about the meeting in the morning. He'd wanted to be able to slide back into his old life, and it hasn't gone like that. It won't go like that. He's changed, and so has everything else. He doesn't know how helpful any conversation he and Harry have now will be.

Maybe it won't matter if he gets thrown off his course in the morning. He really, really doesn't want to be chucked out. He couldn't bear it, but he's got no idea at all how he's going to manage to come back. He still doesn't want to go. He can see his life shrinking down into just his room at home in Doncaster, and that's terrifying all by itself. 

He changes into a pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, and fumbles with his mobile, setting an alarm and plugging it in to charge. He waits until Harry crawls into bed first, back to the wall, so that Louis can slide in in front of him, on his side facing away from Harry. It's easier if he doesn't have to see his face. He switches off the lamp so that the room's in darkness.

They pull the duvet up over them, and Harry wraps an arm around Louis' middle. "I missed you," he says, dropping a kiss to Louis' shoulder. "I'm sorry about today. About making a mess of it all." Harry's always so open and honest with how he feels; Louis' always been jealous of that. Louis—on a good day—is an attention seeker, and it's not that that hasn't involved him being occasionally honest about his feelings along the way, but it's never been his selling point. Harry is like an open book though, honest all the way through, and even back when he wasn't depressed, Louis still felt like the poor relation. Like there was something inside of him that couldn't ever be as honest or as pure as Harry; like there's a taint to Louis that he can't ever shake off. Like he's built wrong. "I just missed you so much. I wanted it all to go perfectly for you."

The sheets are cold; the rest of the house is freezing after the heat of the living room. He shivers back into Harry's embrace, unable to hold himself apart. "I missed you too," he says finally. "I'm sorry. For messing everything up. For making such a mess of everything."

"I wish you weren't," Harry says. "Sorry, I mean. You shouldn't have to be sorry because you're depressed. Don't be sorry about that. It's not your fault."

"Is it all the depression, though?" Louis feels awkward, lying here in bed with Harry. It's always been sort of sacred and secret between them, this friendship of theirs, always so easy and never requiring any effort at all. Everything takes effort now, though, and everything's subject to this kind of in-depth analysis by his brain that means that by the time it comes for him to respond to anything, it's vaguely delayed, slow and off-centre, its meaning lost in the mire of depression he can't help but coat everything with. "On my mitigating circumstances form I put that I'd been sad since September, but I don't know if I was. I feel like I'm cheating. I don't know when it changed. Do you think they'll want to know when it changed? When I changed? Or do you think they'll just think I've been mental all this time?"

"I don't know whether it matters," Harry says. "Like, I don't know what they're going to ask tomorrow, but I'm not sure when it started matters."

"Nick's coming with me," Louis says softly. "Did I tell you that? He's going to come with me."

"No. You didn't." There's a pause. "You and Nick—"

"I can't tell if he feels sorry for me or if he's just mad too, liking me even when I'm like this," Louis says. He doesn't mean to say it out loud. 

"Lou—"

"I really like him," Louis says, "and I'm so scared. I'm so, so scared."

It's a difficult thing to admit, even now. 

Harry hides his face in the curve of Louis' shoulder. "What's there to be scared of?" His voice is muffled, words pressed gently into Louis' skin. "He likes you, and you like him."

"Cos I'm like this," Louis says, and maybe he can only say this because the room's in darkness, because he's tired and scared, and because he doesn't have to see Harry's face. "Because I'm broken and fucked up and it's like someone's stolen my brain and then put it back all wrong, and I miss who I was. Cos I'm angry about all of this stupid stuff, and I don't know how to stop. Cos I'm hurting myself and I don't know how to stop. Cos I miss you all so much, but I'm scared fucking shitless at the idea of coming back." He feels like he's on the edge of tears again. "Because I really, really fucking wish you'd thrown me that un-birthday party."

"God," Harry says, and he sounds choked up. 

Louis wipes his nose on the back of his hand. "Why did you forget?" he asks. He wishes he wasn't asking. He wishes he didn't need to know the answer. "Why did you all forget me? What did I do?"

"I'm so, so sorry," Harry says. 

"I don't know what I did," Louis can't stop. He wishes he could stop. "If I don't know what I did, how can I make sure I don't do it again? What if it happens again? I don't know how to make it stop, Harry, and I don't know what I did, and I don't know what's wrong with me that made you all forget." He's crying, and he doesn't remember starting. A sob catches in his throat, but Harry's rolling him over, so that he can wrap his huge, stupid arms around Louis' shoulders. Louis doesn't want to go, doesn't want to give in to it, but Harry's hugs are so good, and Louis has missed him so, so much. "You need to tell me what I did," he says, muffled in Harry's hug. "I promise I won't do it again. I promise."

"It's not—" Harry's crying too. Louis' made him cry. He hates that he's done that. The cracks inside of him spread outwards like a spider's web, catching the people he loves unawares. Nick's like that, caught up in this web, and Louis wants him to be able to get out if he can. He just doesn't know how to let him go. "You didn't do anything. It wasn't anything. I swear."

"You all forgot me," Louis says, because it's the truth, and it's this dark secret inside of him, the one he tries to keep all locked up, the knowledge that he's at the root of it all, damaged and broken and not worthy of his friends' attention. "How could you forget?"

"It's not fair," Harry says. "None of this is fair."

"I'm sorry," Louis says again. He shouldn't be asking this of his friends; he knows it's too much. He knows that it's unreasonable and he's obsessive and clinging and asking too much of them. There's nothing at all to say that they had to be best friends with him. He was asking too much. He knows that part of this is because he's so scared of the meeting in the morning too. 

"I don't know how to make it better for you. I've been talking to my mum about it. I wanted to fix it for you, and she tried to tell me it wasn't anything I could fix, but I didn't believe her. I wanted to fix it all for you, because you're my best friend, and I've missed you so much. But everything we've done's gone wrong. I don't know anything about anything, and I'm sorry. You're still hurting yourself, and we didn't even know."

"It's not your fault," Louis says, and he tightens his grip on Harry, curling into him so he can steal some of the desperation from Harry's slow, cracking voice and take it back. "It's me for wanting it so much. Just—" His voice falters. "Was it something? Did I do something? Because I'll change, I swear. If you were avoiding me because of something. If I was too intense or something. If you didn't want to spend time with me because I was weird or drinking too much or boring or anything." It hurts, it hurts so much. It's like he's trying to tear his chest in two and let Harry inside of him, and inside is where he keeps all the secret bits of him, the rotten bits he never wants anyone else to see. "If you didn't want to be my friend for a reason."

"Louis—"

"You can tell me," Louis says, and he knows he's being a dick. He knows he's pushing it. He has to know if it's something he can fix. 

"I just like talking to people," Harry says. "I like meeting new people. I like it. That was it. I just did it wrong, that's all. I forgot to make time for the people I already had. I forgot to make time for you. I didn't notice how miserable you were, and I fucked up, and we all did, because we missed all of this. But it won't happen again."

Louis nods. He doesn't really understand, but that's something that's come with his depression; information hits him and then gets filtered in a way that doesn't make any logical sense but he can't help but believe anyway. "What about the others?" he asks. He picks at a thread on the sleeve of Harry's t-shirt. "I know I drove Liam mad. I probably still do. I don't know how to stop."

"Do you remember when we first met Liam, and he was all quiet and weird and never smiled?"

"He had that fake smile," Louis says, and he tucks his foot over Harry's ankle, trying to anchor him close. "Don't forget that weird fake smile."

"And you took him on. Made him smile for real."

"All those dickheads at his school that didn't realise how great he was."

"Yeah," Harry says. "You know you basically came along and fixed him, right?"

"All of us did," Louis says. "The four of us."

"No," Harry says. "You did. You fitted us all together. You're in the middle of us all."

"Haz—"

"You pushed him and you pushed him, and he's better for it. He's happier because of it. He's done stuff he never would have done if it wasn't for you."

"I pushed him in the wrong way. I make him mad."

"Sometimes," Harry says. "When you're frustrated, you take it out on the rest of us. But, like, you're mostly mad at yourself."

"No."

"Yeah," Harry says. He strokes Louis' hair behind his ear. "You snap when you're pissed off. But, like, that's not a reason to hate yourself the way you do."

"I don't hate myself," Louis says in a small voice, but it's a lie. Sometimes he hates himself so much he can't put it into words, even in his head. He's all wrong and he fucks things up. 

"Louis—"

There's a sob caught in his throat. "You'd hate yourself too," he says, and then he's crying, and he can't help it; he can't hide anymore. He's so tired of hiding. "If you were me. You'd hate yourself too. I fuck everything up. I fuck people up. I'm supposed to love them, and I fuck them up."

Harry tightens his hold on him, pulling Louis in even closer. "No," he says. "No, Louis, no. Please—please, Lou. Don't believe that. Don't cry."

"I've made such a mess of everything," Louis says, and there are tears sneaking out that he hasn't given permission for. He tries to scrub his hands across his face, but Harry's holding onto him too tightly. "I don't know how to get any of it back. I don't know how to make it better. I'm trying so hard, but it's not enough. It's never enough."

"You're my best friend," Harry says fiercely. "And I love you. We all love you. We're going to keep telling you until you believe it. You'll get through this. We'll help. Promise."

"You can't love me like this." Louis doesn't mean to say it. He's so tired. Like this he's unloveable. His mum does, but Louis suspects she's contractually obliged to. At least, he hopes so. It hadn't worked with his real dad. God. 

"Can," Harry says. "Louis. We can. I can. I do, and Liam does, and Niall does, and Zayn does. Nick does, you know. You've picked a good boyfriend. He's the best."

"Not my boyfriend," Louis says, hiding his face in Harry's neck. He's so, so tired. It's been such a long, hard weekend, and the scariest bit is yet to come. 

"Isn't he, though?" Harry strokes his hair. "He looked like he was last night. You and him together. And you stayed over."

"He doesn't want to go out with someone like me." Louis rubs his nose over Harry's throat. He sniffs, and wipes his eyes. 

"Fairly sure he does," Harry says. "He talks about you all the time, Lou."

Louis doesn't say anything to that. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you? If it was something I did. Something I could stop doing. I'd try."

"Yeah," Harry says finally. He keeps stroking Louis' hair. Louis still feels like crying, but it's not building up like a dam about to break anymore. "I promise. But it isn't."

Louis nods, and burrows closer. He's going to try and believe that, but it's hard. His brain keeps telling him it was him. The critical voice inside of his head feels like so much a part of him that's it's almost impossible to treat him like an unwanted interloper, like his mum suggests. "Sorry," he says. "Sorry, sorry."

Harry just hugs him harder. "Don't be," he says. "Please don't be sorry."

They stay there for a while, both of them still awake, Louis embarrassed and exhausted. He'd wanted so badly to do better this weekend. He hadn't meant it to be this hard. He doesn't know how to deal with it all being this scary, this big, this difficult. This much hard work.

"I didn't know it was going to be this hard," he says finally. He rubs his cheek against Harry's t-shirt. At least he's not crying anymore. "I didn't know."

"You're still getting better," Harry says. "Mum said it was going to take time for you to get back on your feet. It's all right. You're getting there."

"I want to be better now. I'm so tired of this. What if it's always like this?"

"Don't know. We'll manage. We can do it."

Louis isn't sure about that. He doesn't say anything. 

"I always want you to be a part of my life," Harry says, still stroking Louis' hair. "When I'm old and grey and forty, I'm still going to have my _hi_ tattoo. I'm still going to want to know you."

Everyone says that at university. Louis isn't stupid, but he'd had that feeling too, the _this is bigger than just friendship_ feeling. It's why it's all gone so horribly wrong. 

"I still want us to go interrailing, you know. All of us together."

"I'm crap at saving," Louis says, which he hopes is tentative enough for Harry to accept and move on from. "Anyway, if I'm not here, I might have a job by the summer. No long summer holidays if I'm working."

"A holiday, though. You'll still get holidays."

Louis hums a bit, trying for non-committal. "I should try and get some sleep," he says finally, because there's a really big part of him that can't understand why anyone would want to go away with him. He's too tired to think about any of this too much. He just wants to get through the next twelve hours, and then at least he'll _know_. The rest of his life will be laid out in front of him, and he'll know. He can move on. 

"All right," Harry says. "You don't mind me staying, do you?"

"No," Louis says. It's better that Harry's here. He can't stay awake and go over and over the same shit if Harry's sharing his bed. It might make him worry less. It's worth a try. "Night, then."

"Night."

Louis shifts a little, trying to close his eyes and go to sleep. He can't stop thinking. His meeting just keeps on getting nearer. What if they throw him out? What if he isn't given the chance to fix all of this? What if it's too late? He stays still for a few minutes, but he's tense and uneasy, painfully awake and desperately still. He suspects Harry is the same. He's so tired. 

"Can't you sleep?" Harry asks finally, when the tense, stilted silence has stretched out another ten minutes and neither of them are any closer to actually dropping off. 

"No." He'd slept poorly last night with Nick, because he really wasn't good at sleeping places he didn't know. Couple that with the near constant exhaustion he's dealing with at the moment, and he's about ready to shake with tiredness. 

"I've got a new scented candle," Harry says after another minute, rubbing his hand over Louis' bicep. "And I got a relaxation app on my phone. It's supposed to be calming. White noise."

"You're mad, you," Louis says, rolling away, but Harry's already climbing out of bed and going to get his candle. "Are you going to make me listen to whale noises?"

"There's a Gregorian chants option," Harry says, coming back in with a candle and one of those long handed lighters that nans have to put the gas on with. He puts the light on whilst he clears space on Louis' desk, carefully dumping a pile of Louis' unsorted shit in a neat pile on the floor, and then puts his candle and its coaster in the middle of the desk, and lights it. 

"What flavour is it?" Louis asks, as Harry goes over to turn the light off, and then crawls back into bed, sneaking into the space between Louis and the wall. 

"Jasmine, bergamot, and rose," Harry says. "They're supposed to be calming and good smells for getting to sleep. I got it for exams." He nestles into Louis' side, fumbling with his phone. "Do you want to try the Gregorian chants?"

"I don't even know what that is."

"Monks. Singing."

"Oh my god," Louis says. "No." He waits a beat. "I've missed you, you know. Did I say that? And your stupid candles."

Harry hooks his foot over Louis' under the covers. "Missed you more," he says. "How'd you fancy heavy rain and thunder?"

"Is that supposed to be relaxing?"

"Dunno," Harry says. "Maybe. Do you want to try it?"

"Go on, then."

Harry fiddles with his phone for a bit, and then the room is filled with thunder and rain at high volume. Harry turns it down, and then reaches over Louis to make room for it on the bedside table. "How's that?"

Louis rolls over so that his back is pressed to Harry's front. He tucks his hand under the pillow, and lets Harry arrange the duvet and the blanket over them both. It's oddly rhythmic, the noise of the rain. "It's all right," he says, as Harry tucks himself into Louis' back, nestling close. 

"Bet you didn't get your own rainstorm at Nick's last night," Harry says, rubbing his nose over the back of Louis' neck. "He didn't give you a rainstorm."

"Oi," Louis says sleepily, closing his eyes. "Don't talk shit about my boyfriend."

There's a moment's pause. 

"Lou—"

"Oh god," Louis says, stricken. It had just come out of nowhere. _Boyfriend_. He hadn't meant to say it. 

"Don't get upset," Harry says, voice quicker than normal. 

"I'm not." He isn't. It was sort of a surprise, that's all. It doesn't stop his heart from starting to thump loud in his chest. 

"Are you all right?"

"Dunno," Louis says. "Do you think he really wants to go out with me?"

"Pretty sure," Harry says. "He's fancied you for ages. He goes on and on about you; he thinks you're brilliant. You'll probably make his year when you tell him."

Louis' hand trembles. "You sure?" he says. "He's not just being nice to me because I'm poorly?" 

"No," Harry says. "He wouldn't do that."

"He's not, like, having a joke or anything?" He tries to stop his hand from shaking. It's been happening such a lot since he started taking the anti-depressants. "Because, like, I really like him, Haz. And I can't tell him if he's going to turn round and say it's all a joke. I can't cope with that."

"No," Harry says, and he tucks an arm around Louis' waist. "He likes you so much, Lou. Why don't you tell him you want to go out?"

There are a million reasons in Louis' head for not doing just that, but Harry's anchoring him close, and he sounds so reassuring, and just for a moment, there's the thread of his old bravado running through his veins. He reaches for his phone, pulling it under the covers, his charging cable still attached. He opens a new WhatsApp message, and types, _just called you my boyfriend to harry_

Nick starts typing back almost straight away. _Is that a good or a bad thing? xx_

 _Good thing_ , Louis types back. His heart's pounding. _I want to do it again_. _If you'll have me xx_

Nick's response is a dog with its tongue out, a horn, a cactus, an aubergine, a dancing purple android, a kissy face, a kissy face with a heart, a blushing smiling face, a cat with hearts for eyes, a monkey with its hands over its mouth, a _perfect_ hand sign, a high five, a girl in a red dress dancing, two boys holding hands, a red heart, a bee, an octopus, a cup of coffee, another cup of coffee, a chocolate chip cookie, an anchor, and a rocket taking off. 

Louis rather suspects that means Nick's happy to have him. He sends back four cups of coffee, the two boys holding hands, and a blushing smile. 

_Let's do just that in the morning_ , Nick texts back. _Really really really happy. Really happy. Hope you are too. Like you so much x_

Louis bites his lip to keep from smiling. _Me too_ , he texts back.

_Where are you? thought you were having an early night xx_

_In bed with harry. He's brought a candle in and this weird app that plays rain storms and monks singing. Supposed to be relaxing._

_Is it?_

_Dunno. A bit. You still want to meet in the morning?_

_Course. You going to let me hold your hand in the caff or is that too embarrassing?_

_I'll cope,_ Louis texts. _I suppose. :) :) :)_

_Good. Can't wait. Get some sleep. Call me if you need to xxx_

"You two are awful already," Harry says, forcibly removing Louis' phone from him and putting it on the bedside table. "You're so gone for each other it's stupid."

Louis' phone screen goes black, and the room's in darkness apart from the hiss and the flicker of Harry's scented candle. "We are not," Louis says, but he's blushing. He can't help himself. "Are we?" he asks, in a small voice. 

"Should have seen you last night, Lou. You fell asleep on him and I think he spent more time watching you than he did the film."

"He didn't."

"Ask him what the plot was," Harry says, and Louis can practically hear him smiling. Louis can't help but wriggle. 

"I won't know the answer. He could tell me any old guff."

"Trust me, then," Harry says, and he drops a kiss to Louis' shoulder. "You ready to try and get some sleep?"

"Think so," Louis says. "Is the candle all right?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "It's on a mat and it'll just go out when it runs out. It's fine."

There are butterflies turning somersaults in Louis' stomach, half from nerves about tomorrow's meeting, and half in excitement over Nick. It's a queer, tumbling mix of emotions, and Louis isn't sure he'll be able to sleep at all, but he's ready to give it a shot. He tries to concentrate on the positives: Nick, and his friends, and the sprout competition and a Christmas dinner he's still full from. Harry, here by his side, telling him he still cares, and that he wants to be here. Nick, saying he's looking forward to seeing him in the morning. 

There are good things in his life; he knows this. He just has to cling to the good feelings, and not let them get swept away by the rest of it, the dark, clawing intensity of his depression. 

Just for a moment, it doesn't feel quite so overwhelming as it has done.

He tucks his hand into Harry's, and tries to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, the person who really got drunk in first year and rinsed the hot sauce off their kebab under the tap in halls was me.
> 
> And lastly, my brother and I once made an instructional video on how to catapult sprouts at Christmas, so I'm sure you're glad I'm sharing these gems with you all.


	7. Little Lion Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's just got to keep holding on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas, **hermette** and **ofjustimagine**. You are both much appreciated. Thank you also to **turntlou** , who helped such a lot with the earlier chapters. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Words of caution/ further content notes: content warnings from previous chapters still apply; this contains Louis still being sad, but working through some stuff, a lot of the distorted thought processes and actions that come with being in the middle of a depressive episode, poor language choices (particularly with respect to mental health), self harming behaviours, discussion of self harm, people not always reacting in the best way possible, but everyone trying. I think that's everything but if I've missed something, or if you want to ask anything else about the content, then you can send me an [ask on Tumblr](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/ask) and I'll do my best to answer your question.
> 
> This has taken me months and months to work on and finish, and thank you to all the people who've talked to me along the way, or shared stuff with me, or who've offered to read when I've been completely stuck. It's probably been the hardest thing I've ever written, so thank you. <3
> 
> [Accompanying mix available here](https://8tracks.com/magicalrocketships/not-your-fault-but-mine). Cover art down to the wonderful **checkthemargins** , who is my favourite. <3

~*~

Louis calls his mum on his walk to the cafe to meet Nick in the morning. She's on her way down to breakfast in the hotel before her conference starts, but she asks him how he is, and how he slept, and whether he's ready for the meeting. 

"I don't think I'll ever be ready," he says. "But, like, I'm on my way to meet Nick now. And the lads are doing lunch before I have to go for the train. We're going to do presents, too." He doesn't go in to why they didn't do them last night. Telling his friends about how he hurts himself isn't going to go down in any record books for the best way to spend an evening. 

"That's good," she says. "And I'll meet you at the station tonight, and we'll go straight to the doctors."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, crossing the road. 

"Lou, love—"

"If they throw me out, Mum, I can still live at home, can't I? Even if I can't pay rent?" It's been eating away at him, knowing how much his mum struggles to get by, and how he eats a lot, and won't be working, and wears clothes that need washing, and everything else that comes with him being at home. 

"Oh, darling. Of course you can. But if they try and throw you out they've got a fight on their hands. I've been looking it up."

"Mum, please. I can't. I just—I need to just get through it, all right?"

She waits a beat. "All right. Are you on your way to meet Nick?"

"Yeah. I called him my boyfriend last night."

"Probably about time. Look, all right, I'm at the dining room so I should go. I'll have my phone on me all day. I'll put it on vibrate and if you need me, just ring. I might have to come out of the conference room so I can call you back, but anytime. Okay? And the meeting will be fine. And if it's not, you can stop it at any time. They can't carry on if you're not well. Don't just carry on because you feel you have to. It's all right to step away."

"All right." He's not going to do it, but whatever. 

"I love you."

"Yeah," Louis says. "Thanks, Mum. Love you."

"I'll talk to you in a bit, all right? And tell your dad, too, when you're done. He'll be worried."

"All right." He waits a beat before saying _bye_ , and then he jogs across the road to the West Point just as they're turning over the closed sign to open. He's early. The lady inside beckons him in, but Louis ducks his head and concentrates on his phone instead. There's this fear he can't get rid of, that Nick might stand him up, and it will be more embarrassing if he's inside when that happens. He stays outside in the dark of the morning instead, his coat not quite warm enough against the brisk winter chill. He concentrates on loading Bubblewitch Saga instead of watching down the road for Nick to turn up. 

He's concentrating so hard that he only notices Nick standing right next to him when Nick says _hello_. 

Louis practically drops his phone. "Oh," he says, going red. "Hi."

Nick's wearing his big woollen coat with a red scarf knotted around his neck, and carrying his satchel on his shoulder. His ears look cold. "Why aren't you waiting inside? It's freezing out here."

Louis shrugs awkwardly, shoving his phone in his bag. "Dunno," he says. "Didn't know if you'd turn up."

Nick only looks sad for a moment. "Well," he says. "I'm here now."

"Yeah." Louis moves his hand a little, an aborted attempt at reaching for Nick. He's half convinced that last night hadn't happened; only waking up this morning to a bed full of Harry and the echo of a rainstorm in his bedroom had been enough to settle him, and prove that it hadn't all been a dream. That, and looking at his WhatsApp history.

Nick glances down at Louis' hand, and then back up at his face. He rolls up onto the balls of his feet, and then back down again. "Are you—um. Last night. Do you still want to?"

Louis chews on his lip. He knows he's going red. "Only if you want to."

"Christ," Nick says. "We're a right pair of idiots. Can I hold your hand or not?"

"That would be—yeah," Louis says, face hot. "Yes. Please."

Because the thing is, Louis isn't exactly shy about coming forward under normal circumstances. He's had his share of first year uni shags and drunken kisses. He's had fun, and he's slept around a little bit, but he's never had a boyfriend. Not ever. Nick's his first. Louis is all bluster, but he's never actually held hands in the street with someone he wasn't taking back to his room, or with something who wasn't taking him back to theirs. And now it's Nick, who it turns out he likes so, so much. So very much indeed. 

Nick smiles at him then, and his eyes go all crinkly, and it makes Louis' stomach turn over. "Hi," he says. "So, boyfriends, then."

Louis isn't always as brave as he wants to be anymore, but he's the one who reaches for Nick's hand, and he's the one who laces their fingers together. 

Nick laughs and squeezes his hand. "Are you going to let me buy you breakfast, now?"

Louis doesn't want to let go, ever. "I'm buying you breakfast," he says instead. "As a thank you. For today. And everything."

Nick's gaze softens. "You don't have to."

"I do," Louis says, and he pushes open the door to the café. "And I want to."

There's a sofa in the back corner of the café, and it's not exactly easy to eat a Full English off a coffee table, but Louis steers them that way anyway. When they're sitting down, coats off, he can tuck his hand into Nick's again, and stay pressed together all the way down one side, and that's preferable to sitting opposite each other at one of the tables over by the windows anyway. Particularly as Louis' stomach is churning, and he's not sure he can eat anything even if he tries. 

"What do you fancy?" Nick asks, turning his menu over and over again. Everything in the café is covered in tinsel and fairy lights. There are mini Christmas trees on each of the tables, and the menus have little garlands round the edges. They're playing the same Christmas CD that Niall's been playing all weekend. 

The words swim in front of Louis' nose. What if the English department chuck him out? What if today is his last day as a student? He's scared stiff. He can't even focus on Nick next to him, on the fact that Nick's his actual, real-life boyfriend. It still feels like a dream, even though Nick's holding his hand in public. "I don't think I can eat anything," he says finally. 

"Have you had anything?"

Louis shakes his head. "No."

"Have something," Nick says. "I bet we could get them to make some toast or something. Or I'll get something that has toast come with it, and you could have that. Or a muffin? They've got muffins."

"I'll be sick."

Nick lets go of his hand at that, and for a moment Louis is worried, but then Nick snakes his arm around Louis' shoulders. Louis lets out a breath, and then gives in and curls into Nick's side. The sofa was definitely the right decision. Nick kisses the top of his head. "Okay."

Louis doesn't care who's watching. He wraps an arm around Nick's waist and holds on. 

When the waitress comes over to take their order, Nick orders a pot of tea, a coffee, a muffin, and some toast. 

"I'm not hungry," Louis says as she walks away. 

"I know," Nick says. "But you might fancy a bit."

"I was going to get you a proper breakfast. Eggs and bacon and stuff."

"Another time," Nick says. "When we're both eating. Deal?"

"Suppose." Louis fights the urge to bicker. He wants to do something stupid, something to get rid of the unbearable tension inside of him, the desperate urge to snap and fight and let it all out somehow. He'd woken up early and spent a horrendous twenty minutes trying desperately not to scratch his own skin off before he'd woken Harry up and demanded attention. Harry had sleepily tugged him into a hug and started talking about his plans for Christmas, no questions asked. 

Now Louis has plans to meet Harry in Manchester between Christmas and New Year, a day of hanging out, just the two of them. Maybe go to the Hard Rock Café for lunch. Louis hadn't wanted to admit how much he'd wanted that. A bit of time for just the two of them, together.

"Did you sleep all right?" Nick asks, drawing a pattern on the back of Louis' hand. It makes Louis' stomach swoop, Nick touching him like this. Tentative and careful but nudging at him nonetheless; the two of them feeling their way towards setting their relationship in some kind of context that isn't endless phone calls and late night kissing. "Took me ages to fall asleep." 

Louis shrugs. "All right, I think. Harry stayed." He laces his fingers with Nick's again, thumb stroking at Nick's palm. "Woke up dead early, though. Really fucking nervous."

"It'll be over in a couple of hours," Nick says. 

"One way or another."

"Yeah." Nick squeezes his hand. The waitress is bringing them over their drinks, and Nick's rise and shine muffin. There are banana chips on the top, and Louis carefully disentangles himself whilst Nick divides it into two, pushing half of it towards Louis. "In case you fancy it," he says neutrally. 

Louis appreciates not being pushed. 

They stay in the back corner of the café for another hour or so, not saying much. The CD finishes, and then starts again from the beginning, and Louis watches as a steady dribble of students tip through the doors, in from the cold. The café starts to bustle, people chatting, grabbing takeaway coffees and toasties on their way to their ten o'clock lectures. Nick's got magazines in his bag again, and they end up flicking aimlessly through _Heat_ and _Star!_ and _OK._ It's easy to stay curled into Nick's side, his hand in Nick's, and to feel the flutter inside of his chest calmed a little by just being with someone. He has half a piece of toast and a bit of muffin. 

"You all right?" Nick asks, after the ten o'clock rush has died away. Term finishes tomorrow, and it's clear that loads of people have already gone home for the holidays. The café is fairly quiet, for a start, when normally it's a nightmare trying to even get a table, especially mid-morning. 

Louis shifts a little, so that Nick's hand on his shoulder slips, and Louis can reach up to lace his fingers together with Nick's. "Not really," he says, since he genuinely is trying to be more honest about his feelings. He leans in so that he can press his nose to Nick's throat. "Better for you."

He can feel Nick smile. "It'll be over soon."

"Yeah." Louis noses at Nick's jaw a bit. He's clean-shaven and smells a bit like Nivea; Louis had stolen some of his stuff yesterday morning, before they'd left for the leisure centre and to meet Niall. He likes the way Nick smells. He likes the little patch he's missed on his jaw, the little bristle beneath his thumb. 

"Stop pointing out my mistakes," Nick says, and the way he looks at Louis makes Louis' stomach tip upside down and turn inside out. He's so, so fond, and Louis can't believe that someone—anyone, let alone Nick—would look at him like that. 

"I really like you," Louis says, thumb still pressed to Nick's jaw. 

Nick's smile makes his eyes crinkle up at the edges. "Same," he says. "You going to think I'm forward if I kiss you?"

"Hmmm," Louis says. "Suppose I might."

"Oi."

Louis tries to smile. He's still so nervous about his meeting. "You could do it anyway," he says, and he can't help but drop his gaze to Nick's mouth. His lips are pink. 

"Yeah?" 

Louis keeps staring at Nick's mouth. "Yeah," he says, and he's not sure which one of them moves first, but then Nick's mouth is on his, and he's kissing him, Louis' fingertips splayed across Nick's cheek. 

For a moment, the fear inside of him settles—a breath in time when it's just him and Nick. He breathes out against Nick's mouth, and Nick smiles. It might be a little sad, Louis can't tell. Maybe it's just him.

"Over soon," Nick says. 

"Yeah," Louis says. "Sorry. I can't think about anything else. Not even us."

Nick kisses him on the cheek. "It's all right. Do you want to give me your list of questions? Then I can make sure you get answers to them all."

"All right." Louis opens his Vans rucksack and gets out the papers his mum had worked on. She'd texted him to remind him, half way through her hotel breakfast. Remind him, and wish him luck again. 

He wishes she was here. He really wants his mum. His eyes swim.

Nick smooths open the couple of pages. "All right," he says. "Have you got your letter? The one telling us where to go?"

Louis nods. It's in the pile. He's back to feeling sick again. Nerves twist in his stomach; he needs to go to the loo. He makes his excuses and goes to hide in the little gents' toilet round the other side of the café counter. He digs his nails into his wrist, hissing in a breath. His stomach rolls. 

He doesn't want to get thrown out, he really doesn't. He just doesn't know how they can possibly ask him to stay. 

He stays too long in the toilet, trying to calm his nerves. When he comes back out, there's a furrow in Nick's brow.

"Thought you'd drowned in there," Nick says. "Swallowed up by the flush."

"Nah," Louis says. "Stomach ache."

Nick nods. He holds out his hand, and Louis takes it gratefully, sitting back down next to him. There isn't long before they have to leave. He takes a sip of his cold tea. 

"You can do this, you know."

"Doesn't feel like it." Five more minutes before they have to leave. 

"You can. I'll just nip to the loo, too," Nick says. "Don't run off with my stuff."

"You'll never see it again," Louis says. He sits back on the sofa as Nick disappears round the back of the counter, all long skinny legs and stupid hair. Nick looks back over his shoulder at him and grins, and the butterflies in Louis' stomach tremble with it all. 

He flicks through one of the magazines again, but then Nick's phone starts to ring in his bag, loud and terrible. It's Nicki Minaj's _Starships_ , and everyone's looking in Louis' direction. He grabs Nick's satchel and undoes the clasps, rooting around to find his phone in the front pocket. He silences it as quickly as he can, and then he slides it back into the pocket. The rest of the café have already turned back to their coffees and their cakes. 

Louis doesn't exactly root around in Nick's bag, but he doesn't have to. 

There's a book in there, little post-it note bookmarks marking the pages. It's called _Understanding Depression_. 

It makes Louis' stomach turn over, and not in a good way. 

He shoves it back inside Nick's bag, and gets the clasps done up again before the door opens to the gents. When Nick comes back to the table, Louis' reading _Heat_ again, almost like he'd never seen the book. 

"Come on, then," Nick says. "Let's get going."

"Okay," Louis says, and he makes a big deal of putting his too-thin coat on and grabbing his stuff. 

When Nick holds his hand out for Louis to take, Louis hesitates, just for a moment. 

"Come on," Nick says, and Louis stops thinking about the book, about feeling like he's Nick's own personal science experiment, reduced to just this stupid illness, and concentrates on the fact he's about to get thrown out of uni instead. 

~*~

Five minutes later, he's sitting outside Dr Perry's office in the English department round the corner with Nick by his side. He feels sick and he's trying to hide it; nausea rolls in his belly and his anxiety sits heavy on his skin like a cloak. His hand is tight in Nick's because he wants to scratch his wrist and has tried not to, grabbing Nick's hand like an anchor instead, but that isn't enough to stem the itch. He rubs the inside of his wrist against his thigh, trying to do it discreetly so that Nick can't tell. 

He keeps thinking about the _Understanding Depression_ book he'd seen in Nick's bag. He feels like he's stuck in a box with no way out. It's like his life is nothing more than this stupid fucking depression, and he hates it. He hates it. He doesn't want to understand more about depression, he just wants it to go the fuck away.

Nick offers him a smile. "You okay?" he asks, although he must be able to tell how nervous Louis is by how sweaty his palm is, and how tightly he's holding on. 

"You've got a book on depression in your bag," Louis says quickly. "I saw it in the café."

"Oh," Nick says. He's gone a bit red. "I didn't mean for you to see that."

"Reading up on me," Louis says. He scuffs the toe of his Vans against the lino. "Am I like your science experiment, or what? Psychology? Interested in my brain, or what?"

"Louis—" Nick squeezes his hand. "It's not a big deal, all right? I just—I wanted to know a bit more about it, that's all. Depression."

"What do you need to know more about it for? I'm mental, that's all you need to know."

Nick tries to smile. "Because I really like you, that's why. Because I wanted to be helpful and not make things worse. Because we all care about you, that's why."

"I hate this," Louis says, and he tucks himself into Nick's side. "How can you want to go out with someone who's mental?"

"I want to go out with you," Nick kisses the top of Louis' head. "I still want that regardless of whether you've got depression or not."

"I don't get that," Louis says, burrowing closer. If he just keeps on burrowing then maybe he can disappear inside of him and not have to sit through the meeting. 

"I know you don't," Nick says. "And I never read books. But, like, I know you're having a hard time and I wanted to know more about it. What I could do, you know? What it's like for you."

"I bet it's not the same as how it's written. It's properly, properly shit in real life."

"I know," Nick says. He squeezes Louis' hand. "I'm sorry if you thought I was going behind your back. I didn't mean to. I just—I was just trying to make it easier for you. I thought I could help, or something. Sorry."

"It's just weird, that's all. And, like, shit. That you have to read a book because I'm mental."

"You've got depression," Nick says. "I'd be looking up stuff if you had cancer or something weird wrong with your spleen or whatever too. If you had gout. I'd want to make sure I was helping."

"Nobody has gout anymore. I don't even know what it is."

"Some people might," Nick persists. "I'm sorry, though. That you had to see it and be worried."

"Why isn't it over yet?" Louis asks, kicking the leg of his chair over and over. He can't think about Nick's depression book any more. It doesn't matter, anyway, if Nick's reading up on him. Not really. "I just want it to be over."

"I know," Nick says, and he keeps holding on, right up until the moment when the door opens and they're being invited inside. 

The meeting starts off weird. There are two people from the English department, his personal tutor and his course administrator, and as well as them, there's a woman from the university disability office, a woman with a hearing aid who introduces herself as Elaine. His course administrator, Caroline, says that she's mostly here to take notes, which makes Louis feel like he's on trial. His personal tutor, Dr Perry, looks fierce until her glasses slide down her nose and she has to peer over them. When she smiles, Louis doesn't feel quite so terrified. She reminds Louis of Professor McGonagall. He scrabbles for Nick's hand under the table again anyway, and Nick squeezes. 

"So," Dr Perry says. "Thank you for coming in today, Louis. And you are?"

"This is Nick," Louis says. "He's my—" He doesn't say boyfriend. He rather suspects their joined hands say that, anyway. 

Nick smiles awkwardly, and produces a couple of folded bits of A4—Louis' mum's lists. "Louis' made a list of questions. I'm just here to ask the ones he forgets."

"Good," Dr Perry says. "Always good to have moral support. So, let's get started. We're here because we know that you been having problems this term, and the English department would like to know how best we can support you in returning to your studies."

Louis looks up, startled. "What?"

"There are plenty of ways we can support someone with a mental health condition with their studies," Elaine says. She has a slightly thick accent. Louis had been half convinced he wouldn't be able to understand her and she wouldn't be able to understand him because of her hearing aids. He feels a bit stupid. He wonders if she gets that a lot. 

"I thought you were going to chuck me out," he says, all in a rush. "I thought you were going to expel me or something."

Dr Perry shakes her head. "No. So long as you're well enough to study—so long as your doctor and, if necessary, one of the doctors at the university health centre agree that you're well enough to study—then we'll do all that we can to facilitate you continuing with your studies."

"What counts as well enough?" Louis asks. "Because, like—what if I'm still depressed after Christmas?" He knows he's gone red. "I know I've done really badly this term. I don't know if I'll be better by after Christmas." It's truly embarrassing having to admit it.

Elaine reaches down into her bag and comes back out with a sheaf of papers. "I don't mean to derail Dr Perry, but let's talk about disability a bit, all right?" She pushes a leaflet across the table to him. It says _Mental Health and University_ in big letters across the middle. "There are plenty of students who have a mental health difficulty and still study, Louis. Depression isn't a barrier to getting a degree."

"But I've done really badly this term." He's practically failed. He's embarrassed that he can see Dr Perry has his essays printed out on the desk in front of her. 

"That's not surprising, given the obstacles you were facing. It must have been very hard, trying to manage a full time degree on top of your mental health condition, with no support."

His hand is shaking. Nick keeps a tight hold of him under the table. "I couldn't do any of it, though," he says. "None of it made any sense. It just kept getting harder. I can't do it. I'm not good enough to be on this course."

"Of course you are," Dr Perry says. "You had to get the same A levels as everyone else to get onto the course, didn't you? If you didn't, you wouldn't have got in. We don't admit people who don't make the entrance requirements for a reason. They wouldn't keep up. And I can see from your first year essays and exams that you were perfectly capable of achieving." She looks over her glasses at him. "If a little slapdash at times, but that's to be expected from the majority of our first years."

"But my marks were so terrible," Louis says. "I didn't understand any of it."

"Shall I tell you some of the problems that students with mental health difficulties might face in accessing their studies?" Elaine asked. "See if any of them sound like something you've experienced. Because we see students all the time trying to cope with the pressure of succeeding in academia, and living away from home for the first time, and on top of that, you have to maintain the kind of exhausting social life that would leave most other adults reeling."

"Everyone else copes."

"About seven per cent of students at university declare some kind of disability. And we can only guess at the students who choose not to declare. Maybe people just aren't talking about it with their friends. What do you think about that?"

"But, like, disability isn't this. It's not depression. It's like, not being able to walk and stuff."

"Or being deaf?" Elaine smiles. "Do you know what the legal definition of disability is? It's a mental or physical impairment that has a substantial and long-term effect on your ability to do normal day-to-day activities. I'd argue, and so would Dr Perry, that that sounds exactly like depression, wouldn't you?"

Louis is confused. "I don't know."

Elaine hands him a piece of paper. She hands one to Dr Perry too, and Caroline, and Nick. It says: _You might already know how your mental health condition affects your ability to study, but in case you don't, there are various elements you might find difficult that you might need additional support with:_

_\- attending all the lectures and seminars and tutorials that you need to_  
 _\- being on time_  
 _\- completing and submitting all the work that you need to_  
 _\- group work_  
 _\- meeting deadlines_  
 _\- concentrating (in lectures and at home)_  
 _\- activating yourself to do the things you want to_  
 _\- talking, effectively communicating, or working with other people – including university lecturers, tutors, wardens, and other staff as well as peers_  
 _\- sharing accommodation with your peers_  
 _\- organising your self and your time_  
 _\- self care_  
 _\- low energy and poor sleeping and eating habits_

"How does that sound?" Elaine asks, after a minute. "Does any of it feel familiar?"

"This isn't cos of my depression," Louis says. There's a dull thudding in his ears. "I'm shit at all of this stuff, but it isn't because I'm depressed."

"Isn't it?" Dr Perry asks. "Because I'd say there's a marked difference between your first and second year work and attendance, and your mitigating circumstances form says your depression started this year."

"No, but, like..." Louis trails off. His hands are sweating. 

"These are all difficulties that people with depression might encounter," Elaine says, quite gently. "And they're things that we can help with."

"How? How on earth can you make me understand this stuff? I don't get any of it. I don't understand what the tutors are even saying. Everyone else gets it, and I'm just—I'm just stupid at the back of the room."

"Louis," Nick says. "Hey. You're not stupid."

"Sorry. Sorry." Louis feels inexplicably like crying. That list is everything he's been feeling for months and months, and there are parts he hadn't associated with depression, and parts he doesn't want to associate with depression, and he doesn't know what to do or think or feel. 

"There are a few options open to you," Dr Perry says. Caroline pours Louis a glass of water, and slides it across the table to him. She's making notes on an A4 spiral-bound notepad; when she turns the page, there's a pale picture of Snoopy on the corner of the paper. "They rather depend on when you're ready to return to university. Your sick note ran out yesterday."

"I think I'm getting another one tonight," Louis says. "My mum wants me to." He doesn't know if he should be saying that or not. He's oddly dazed. He keeps looking at the list. 

"All right. As you know, exams start after Christmas, and there are a couple of options. The first is that you sit the exams as expected, if you're well enough. The second is that you don't."

Louis' head jerks up at that. They really are going to throw him out. 

"If you don't sit them in January," Dr Perry goes on, "there are two further options. The first is that you sit them in August, after the end of the academic year, but you start your second set of modules with your year in February, as expected. The second option is that you take a period of formal interruption and we ask you to re-sit the year."

"I don't want that," Louis says immediately. "I don't want to re-sit the year."

"It's an option. If you aren't well enough to start the second semester with the rest of your year, then we would advise that re-sitting would be in your best interest."

"I don't want to."

"Caroline will be outlining all the options in her notes," Dr Perry says. "You can read through the re-sit option nearer the time and if you decide to, then you can take it up. But it sounds like you'd prefer one of the other options."

"I don't want to re-sit," Louis says again. He'd be here a year after his friends. It's going to be hard enough trying to keep up without being kept down a year. He's already fucked his A levels up once; he can't do it again. He can't. 

"All right. There are two other options, then. Sit the exams in January, or sit them in August. I would advise sitting them in August, after you've completed the year, after you've returned to your studies in February for the beginning of the second set of modules, provided you're well enough. Caroline will outline all the options for you in your letter. The next thing to discuss is whether you wish to resubmit your assessed work from this term."

"What?" Louis asks. His voice sounds small. 

"Your work from this term has been significantly affected by your depression." Dr Perry sounds so clear and matter of fact, like Louis' depression isn't something to be ashamed of. "We'd like to give you the option of resubmitting it, if you would like."

"How's he going to re-do it all if he's got to do all of his other work as well?" Nick asks. "If Louis comes back for the next modules, I mean. That's a full time course. He can't do the work from this term again too, that's not fair."

"It isn't," Dr Perry agrees. "We would expect them to be re-submitted over the summer, prior to the re-sits in August."

Louis swallows. "But..." he trails off. "That's not fair. Giving me a second chance. Everyone else probably thinks they could do better if they had another go at it. They'll think I'm cheating."

"Will they?" Dr Perry raises an eyebrow. She's fierce. "Elaine has already outlined some of the difficulties you might have faced this term. I trust you recognised some of them in yourself?"

"All of them, pretty much."

"Indeed. Look, Louis. You're an intelligent young man, and you've had an extremely difficult term, so far as I can understand it. Your work has not been of the calibre that your previous results would have led us to believe you could achieve. The fact that your doctor signed you off suggests that you weren't well enough to study these past few weeks. Would that sound fair?"

"Suppose."

"The university's disability office can offer a range of support that will go someway to levelling the playing field between you and your peers. We would like you to take them up on some or all of that support, and then re-submit your essays when you have the tools to counteract some of the elements that Elaine's leaflet highlighted."

"What kind of tools?" Louis asks. He's picturing a power drill and a hammer. 

"Well, you'd be allowed time off your lectures and seminars without penalty for any scheduled doctor's appointments or counselling sessions," Elaine starts. "Have you ever heard of the Disabled Students' Allowance?" Louis shakes his head. "It's a grant from the government that goes someway to closing the gap between disabled students and non-disabled students, by recommending a variety of tools and support. Maybe a recording device, so you could listen back to what the lecturer was saying at a later date if you're having difficulty concentrating. Or if you're having difficulty organising your thoughts, then you might find some mind mapping software helpful, or extra time in your exams to get your thoughts in order. But what I'd most like to organise for you is some regular time with our mental health mentor."

Louis frowns. "What?"

"I'd envisage one or two hour sessions per week for the rest of the academic year at least, and if it's helpful, on into next year as well," Elaine tells him. "Mentoring is a way of enabling students to manage their academic life when they also have to manage a mental health condition. They can help you work out coping skills and study patterns and realistic goals, and support you in managing your expectations, and things like exam stress and dealing with pressure, all specific to your own mental health condition. I'll give you a leaflet about it, but the idea is that they help you create the toolkit you need to deal with the problems you've identified in line with the leaflet I gave you earlier." 

Louis looks down at the list in front of him. All the information is starting to swim in his head. He hopes Nick's listening. There's too much to take in. He squeezes Nick's hand, and Nick glances at him. There's a furrow in his brow. 

"It all sounds good," Nick says. "Does he need to, like, do anything to set that up?"

"Make an application," Elaine says. "I've got all the forms here for you to take away, Louis, and you can give me a ring or send me an email if you have any difficulties filling it in."

Louis nods. He takes the forms and puts them on the pile in front of him. "Thanks."

"A mental health condition is an obstruction in the way of gaining your degree," Dr Perry says, "but it's not a barrier. It's just a case of approaching it a bit differently. We'll be very happy to see you back at university, Louis." She straightens her paper. "Caroline will get all this typed up for you, and we'll email you a copy and put one in the post for you."

"What do I need to do now?"

Dr Perry smiles at him. "Have a rest over the holidays, I think. I don't advise sitting the exams in January, but if you do wish to take up that option, you'll need to let me know as soon as possible into the new year so we can make the arrangements. I do, however, think that submitting your essays and sitting the exams in the summer might be the best option if you're well enough to come back rather than take a formal interruption. Read through the information Caroline's emailing to you, and the resources from Elaine, and contact us when you have questions. You'll see all the dates in the email for when you have to let us know by."

"And you're definitely not chucking me out."

"Definitely not."

"Right," Louis says. "And, um, if I have questions?" He means, my mum is going to have questions. He just can't take any more information in. 

"My contact details will be in the email."

"What about if my—if my mum has questions?"

Dr Perry smiles at him. It doesn't stop Louis from feeling embarrassed. It's just that his mum _is_ going to have questions. There's no getting round that. "If your mum has any questions, then she can give me a ring," she says. "You'll need to send me an email beforehand telling me that you give me permission to discuss your situation with your mum for that phone call."

"Can I do it now?"

"No," she says. "It has to be for each instance I speak with her. That way, you know exactly what's being said, and under what circumstances."

"And, uh—" Louis picks at the skin by his thumbnail. "If—when I come back. Everyone else on my course. Are you going to tell them?"

She looks over her glasses at him. "No."

Elaine jumps in at that point. "Your mental health condition belongs to you, and you alone," she says. "It isn't our right to disclose that information to anybody else."

He's still picking at his thumb. At least he's not scratching his wrist to pieces. "What about my tutors?"

"Do you have any specific worries?" Elaine asks. "They won't know unless you tell them, or unless you ask us to tell them, but sometimes students find it to their benefit to have their tutors know."

"I don't want them to know," Louis says immediately. He wants it secret. He doesn't want anyone, at all, to know how fucked up he is.

"The only reason we'd tell anyone," Dr Perry puts in, "would be so that we could put reasonable adjustments in place. Like if any potential counselling sessions or appointments with your doctor clashed with a lecture. Or if any medication you might be taking gave you any particular side effects. Or if you were asked to do something that you weren't being assessed on, but that you might find particularly difficult, like group work."

"That I wasn't being assessed on?" Louis asks. 

"There are certain elements to every course," Dr Perry tells him, "that are core component parts of that degree, that you have to do in order to graduate. Like your dissertation in your third year, and getting a certain amount of higher level English credits. And to get those credits there are certain pieces of assessed work you have to submit, and one or two of those might be based in group work, depending on the modules you choose. But there are other things that are just suggestions, like reading groups outside of the tutorials. I know that Dr Monroe is particularly keen on that suggestion, and you're signed up to his module next term. Those reading groups are suggestions, and your attendance at them is not mandatory. We'd hope that you could make use of them, but if the impact on your health outweighed the use, then you wouldn't be penalised for not going. Your tutor knowing that would mean that you wouldn't have to worry about explaining that."

"Do I have to decide now?"

"No," Elaine says. "Have a think about what we've said, and then we can talk about it in the new year. Put a plan in place." 

Louis nods. He thinks he's covered most of what his mum wanted him to. He just wants to get out of here, and ask questions later, when he's had a chance to think. He really wants to think. "Can I—can I go now?"

"You can. Don't forget your leaflets."

Elaine hands him an application pack and a wallet of further information. Her card's pinned to the front, and there's an email address and a telephone number. He hadn't really thought about whether people with hearing aids could use the phone. It's all been rather short-sighted of him, if he's honest. He clings on to Nick's hand, and tries not to think about how sweaty his palms are as he shakes hands with Dr Perry and Elaine and Caroline on the way out. 

"Merry Christmas," Dr Perry says as they leave, and then they're saying it back, still hand in hand, and Louis is shaking as they walk down the stairs and out of the front of the English department. 

"That went all right, I thought," Nick says, as they cross the road. He's keeping a tight hold on Louis' hand.

"Yeah," Louis says, but he waits until they're round the corner and out of sight of English before he stumbles to a halt, tugging on Nick's hand so that he stops too. 

"What, love?" 

His voice catches when he tries to talk. He gives in and buries his face in Nick's chest instead, hands to Nick's shoulders. "They're not going to throw me out," he says, and if he sounds choked up, it's only because he's been so terrified for so long. Luckily it's half lost in Nick's coat. His shoulders heave. He tries to get himself under control. "They're not chucking me out. I can stay."

"I know," Nick says, and he wraps his arms around Louis, kissing the top of his head, his hand sliding into Louis' hair, holding him close. He sounds wrecked too. "God, Lou. I'm so pleased for you."

"I can stay," Louis says, almost in disbelief. He's shaking. He hides his face in Nick's neck. "I don't have to get better straight away and I can still stay."

"You can resubmit your work," Nick says. "Fuck, Louis. I'm so happy for you."

Louis sort of wants to cry in sheer relief. He doesn't. He just wraps his arms around Nick's neck, trembling, and Nick kisses the side of his head. "I don't have to sit my exams until the summer."

"I know," Nick says. "It's fucking brilliant."

"God."

"Are you going to call your mum?"

Louis nods. He doesn't know what to do. He's not ready to go home yet. "Do you want to—I don't know? We could go to Costa. Have hot chocolate. I've got time before lunch."

Nick steps back, out of the hug. He's smiling. Louis loves his stupid, wide, ridiculous smile and the way his eyes crinkle up when he's happy. He has laughter lines, and Louis really likes it when he gets to see them. 

"Well," Louis says. "Costa?"

Nick slips his hand into Louis'. "Costa," he says. "And I'm buying."

"I am, so shut up," Louis says. It isn't like he's any the less depressed after his meeting, and it's not like it's magically getting less painful inside of his head, but it feels like a huge, giant, ginormous weight has been lifted off his shoulders in the past few minutes. A do-over. A chance to fix it. He can barely remember what hope feels like, but he's pretty sure it's like this. "God, Nick. I can come back."

"Now you can be my boyfriend when we're living in the same town," Nick says, and Louis can't tell if Nick's blushing, or if it's just the fact it's fucking freezing that's making his cheeks go pink, but Louis doesn't mind. He goes up on his tip-toes to press a kiss to Nick's cheek. 

"Yes," he says, "I can."

When Nick squeezes his hand, Louis feels warm, right down to his toes. 

~*~

Nick buys him a giant signature hot chocolate with whipped cream and a flake, and Louis would complain about Nick getting in there first with his debit card, but Louis is too busy trying to leave a voicemail for his mum to get his card out in time. 

"Stop frowning," Nick says as he carries the tray with Louis' hot chocolate and Nick's massive soya mocha on over to the table in the corner. "You've had a huge weekend. The least I can do is provide hot chocolate at the end of it."

"And squirty cream." Louis sticks his tongue out at Nick as he takes the seat in the corner. His mum's phone had gone straight to voicemail, so he'd left her a message that just said, _they're not chucking me out. Give me a ring when you get this. Going to have hot chocolate with Nick. Love you_ , and hung up. Now he's calling his dad, but Mark's crap at answering his phone at the best of times, and Louis wishes he'd just sent a text instead. He'd been caught up in the enthusiasm of it all, but the nerves are settling back in now, the relentless pitter-patter of moth's wings in his chest, and he bottles it at the last moment, hanging up before it gets to voicemail, and shrinking down in his seat. 

"Can't get through to your mum?"

"My step-dad," Louis says. "I don't know. I probably shouldn't have rung him. He's not my dad and they're divorced, I don't know. Like, he shouldn't have to deal with my shit anymore."

Nick looks sad. "Has he told you he doesn't want to deal with your shit? Because that's pretty terrible."

"No." Louis shrugs. "Why would he want to, though?"

"Cos some of us want to," Nick says, and Louis can't even try and make sense of that. There's no space in his brain for it, no room at all to try and understand why anyone would want to purposefully make space for him when he's like this. He still can't get his head around why Nick would want to learn more about depression, instead of walking away and finding someone who didn't come with a whole train load of baggage to heft along behind them. He doesn't understand why Nick—who doesn't read—would want to waste his time putting tiny post-it flags in a book about depression. There's an entire LGBT soc at the union, full of boys who'd snog Nick, and none of them come with a lorry load of mental health problems. 

"Mum said to text him. Maybe I should do that instead." He's just reaching for his phone when it starts to ring, and it's his dad's face on the screen. His ringtone is loud and obnoxious, even over the Christmas CD being played at full volume over the Costa speakers. People are looking over. 

"Are you going to get that?" Nick asks, after a few seconds. 

It's embarrassing, sitting there and staring at it, but it genuinely feels like there's a block somewhere between his brain and his hand; he wants to answer it but his hand won't move. There's a wall there that he doesn't know how to break through. 

It's only the increasing embarrassment of the volume of the ringtone that makes him grab it and answer it in the end, and even then it's a moment before he can lift it to his ear. 

"Hi," he says, a little awkward. He glances at Nick, and then down at his lap.

"Hi, Louis," Mark says, and Louis, inexplicably, wants to cry. "Sorry I missed your call."

"Hi, Dad," he says. He scrabbles for Nick's hand over the table, digging his fingernails into Nick's palm. "Hi."

"How did it go? Your meeting? Your mum said it was this morning."

"Just finished it," he says. "They said I can stay. I can retake the essays and do my exams in the summer."

"That's good news," his dad says. "How are you feeling?"

"Dunno," Louis says. It's been weeks since they've spoken. Weeks and weeks. He doesn't know how much his mum has told him. "Tired, I think."

"Expect it's been a busy weekend, seeing all your friends."

"Something like that," Louis says. He can't loosen his grip on Nick's hand. 

"I haven't seen you in a while. Your mum says you've been at home."

"Yeah," Louis says, and he drops his gaze to his lap. He knows his dad knows, but even so. He doesn't know how to say it out loud. "Been a bit poorly."

"Your mum's been telling me." He sounds a little awkward, but gentle nonetheless. "I thought maybe you and I could spend some time together, before the girls break up for the holidays. What do you think?"

"I'm a bit—" He doesn't know how to say depressed, or anxious, or worried, or scared. "Quiet."

"That's all right. Maybe you could come over one night, and stay over? What do you think?"

"I don't sleep very well in places I don't know." He doesn't mean to sound hesitant.

"Lunch, then. Or come over for the evening. I can drop you back at your mum's, if you'd like."

"All right." He'd like that, he thinks. Seeing Mark. He can't help but ask, though. "Are you sure you want me to? You don't have to. It's all right." It hurts just asking, but it burrows away at him, this feeling that he's not wanted. 

"What do you mean?" Mark asks. 

Louis shrugs. He tries to loosen his grip on Nick's hand. "You're not my dad," he says finally. "You don't have to."

There's a pause. Louis wants to scratch his arm off. "I should have been better about ringing you," Mark says. "I thought you were just taking time to adjust, because you and your mum were always so close, and because of the divorce. I should have pushed it."

"Pushed what?"

"You, to come round with the girls. I should have seen you more over the summer. Rung you at uni a bit more. Maybe you wouldn't have got so poorly then."

"Depressed," Louis says, after a minute. "I got depressed. I got really, really depressed. And it's not your fault."

"I know the divorce was especially hard on you," Mark goes on, like Louis hasn't spoken. "I knew that you were hiding how much it hurt, but I didn't do enough about it. The girls were easier, they just cried a lot. But you, you bottled it all up inside. I knew you were trying to be strong."

"Dad," Louis says, because he has to make him stop. "Dad, please."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be—but I blame myself."

"No," Louis says. "Don't, please. I'll come to yours for the evening. But it's not your fault."

"I'm going to do better at being in your life," his dad says. "You should have a think about what you'd like for your birthday and Christmas, too. Me and your mum thought we could club together and get you a laptop that actually works, rather than that old one you're hefting around."

"I don't need a new laptop," he says, even though he does. He knows for a fact that his mum is utterly unable to buy a new tumble dryer. There is no way on earth he's allowing her to give any money at all towards a laptop for him. 

"What about a new iPod, then? We got you that one when you were seventeen, and I bet it's a bit more bashed up now."

"I don't need you to buy me anything." It's on the tip of his tongue to say, _don't waste your money on me_ , and that's such an alien concept to him he doesn't know what to do with it. He was the boy who circulated birthday and Christmas lists on the first of October. He did that last year. _Last year_. 

"Son—"

"When do you want me to come over? I can't tonight. I'm not getting back until after six, and then Mum's taking me straight to the doctor's."

"What about Thursday? I could pick you up if you wanted, or you could come and meet me at the office. You could get some Christmas shopping done first."

"Fine," Louis says. "I can do Thursday." He can do any day. He's got nothing on. Nothing until he comes back to uni. God. He gets to come back. He loosens his grip on Nick, and meets Nick's eyes, offering him a smile. He gets one back. Some day he's going to have to pay Nick back for this weekend of just wandering round babysitting Louis from one crisis to another. He's not sure how he's ever going to do that. "Dad, sorry, I've got to go. My boyfriend's just sitting here."

Nick smiles properly then, ducking his gaze. He laughs when he looks back up, eyes bright, and Louis can't help but smile back. 

"Boyfriend, huh?" 

"Yeah," Louis says. "And I really do have to go. I'm sorry."

"All right. Have fun with your boyfriend, Louis. I'll see you on Thursday."

"Yeah, okay. Bye, Dad." When he puts the phone down, Nick's still sitting there, smiling at him. "What?"

"Dunno," Nick says. "I just like it when you say boyfriend."

Louis can feel himself blush. "I've never really said it before."

"Me neither," Nick says. "I'm usually too crap for proper boyfriends. It's a few weeks of hanging about and then I mention the boyfriend thing and you can't see them for dust. God. Should I have said that?"

Louis wrinkles his nose. "I don't know," he says. "Can we not talk about your other boyfriends?"

"Not-boyfriends," Nick says. "If I come and sit next to you, can I kiss you?"

"Oh," Louis says. "I was going to ask you."

Nick laughs at that, and then he shifts so he's squishing into the corner of the bench next to Louis. The girl next to them with her books spread over her table looks a bit put out, but Louis can't bring himself to care about that. The last twenty-four hours seem a bit like a blur, and the part where Louis and Nick started going out seeming more like a blur than the rest of it. Louis determinedly shifts so that he can put his legs over Nick's lap. Nick helps him get comfortable with a hand to Louis' thigh. 

"How are you doing?" Nick asks. "Better now your meeting's over?"

"Yep," Louis says. He's studying Nick's jaw again, trying to find the little bit that Nick had missed shaving again. When he spots it, he presses his thumb to it, pleased as anything. 

"Stop pointing out my inadequacies," Nick says, but he's smiling. 

"I like your inadequacies," Louis says. "Look. I mean. Thanks for today. And yesterday. And the day before yesterday. And, like, the last two weeks. God. That's a lot. You've basically held me together the last couple of weeks. And I know that's, like, way too much to ask of anyone, but you did it anyway." That _I love you_ is breathless inside of him again. He can't trust it. It's too soon. He can't put that on Nick. He tamps it down again, and focuses on stroking his thumb over Nick's jaw. 

"I always thought you were brilliant," Nick says, after a moment. He keeps looking at Louis' mouth and then back up again. "I just thought you were so fucking brilliant. I couldn't take my eyes off you. Harry used to make fun of me, cos I'd turn into such an idiot whenever you were around. Trying to impress you with how important and cool I was. And it never worked."

"I thought you were a wanker," Louis agrees. Nick has such a nice mouth. When he smiles, he has dimples and these little smile creases at the corners of his mouth, and Louis can't help but trace his fingertips over them. God, Nick is _so nice_. His hair's all sticking up and his mouth is so wide and he looks at Louis like Louis is something special, someone deserving of all the kindnesses Nick has thrown at him the past few weeks. "And then everything just got terrible."

"Louis—"

"No. It got terrible, and I was so miserable, and it all hurt so much, and I felt so fucking alone. I felt like I was the only person in the whole fucking world, and then you asked me to go back to yours with you. You, like—god. I remember you putting your hand on my knee more than I remember anything else from this term. Because everything was so fucking disconnected, and it still is, but you touched me like I existed. And I felt like I didn't. Sometimes I still feel like I don't. But you help me remember I'm, like, real."

"I still think you're brilliant," Nick says. "For the record."

Louis leans in to rest his forehead against Nick's. He has to struggle to focus when he's this close; he's fairly sure he's going cross-eyed. He can feel Nick's breath against his mouth. "Thanks," he says again, trying to search Nick's expression for any hidden truths. "For everything."

Nick's smile is soft and slow. "Do you still think I'm a wanker? Do I have extra work to do?"

Louis shakes his head. "No," he says. He tilts his chin up, just a little. "Or maybe a bit. To be perfect, like. Can I kiss you?"

"Yeah," Nick says, and Louis touches his mouth to Nick's. He stays right where he is, trembling, and Nick doesn't move either. Louis kisses him again. He's breathless and they haven't even properly kissed. 

"So brilliant," Nick says, and Louis tries to laugh, hand to Nick's shoulder. He can't really believe that, although here in this moment he can at least believe that Nick genuinely likes him. He doesn't quite have an understanding of why, but at least he believes that he _does_. 

"Are you going to come back to mine afterwards? Liam's doing leftovers for lunch. Then we're doing presents."

"I'll come back with you," Nick says, tracing his fingertips over Louis' elbow. "Steal a bit of cold turkey before you lot get on with your presents."

"All right." Louis doesn't want to shift position. He reaches for Nick's drink and hands it to him, then picks up his hot chocolate, and cradles it to his chest. The cream's starting to melt. "Hey, I haven't been chucked out."

"You haven't," Nick agrees, and he kisses the corner of Louis' mouth. Louis probably tastes like chocolate sprinkles and marshmallows. "Hey, you want to hear about this girl who wants to produce my radio show? The one I met yesterday?"

Louis smiles. "Sure," he says, half losing his balance as he shifts, his legs hooked over Nick's. "Why not."

Nick shifts his hand to steady Louis, half in and out of his lap. "She wouldn't make me a coffee. You'd think she'd have wanted to make a good impression."

"Sounds like a good impression to me. Put you in your place early on."

"Cheeky," Nick says, his hand sneaking into the small of Louis' back. "Anyway, do you want to hear this, or not?"

"Fine," Louis says, fake-exasperated, and he takes a big gulp of his hot chocolate. "Go on."

He'll sit here and listen to whatever Nick wants to tell him, is the thing. He wonders if Nick knows. 

His mum calls him back ten minutes later. Louis' drink is pretty much gone, but Nick is still toying with the cold dregs of his mocha. Louis keeps wrinkling his nose whenever Nick suggests he have a taste, because soya milk is the worst thing ever, and Louis is not drinking that. Not even if Nick is dairy-intolerant, or whatever he says he is. Soya milk is disgusting. He nudges it away as he picks up his phone.

Louis' mum sounds like she's in a giant tunnel. It's possible she's not at a post-natal care conference at all, but in a wind tunnel in a science lab instead. 

"How did it go?" she asks, over the whistling of a gale. 

"I can stay," Louis says, tapping his finger into Nick's thigh. "They said I can either take my exams in January, or in August. And I can start my modules in February with everyone else."

"Are you sure you're going to be well enough by then?" His mum sounds doubtful, and Louis' mood immediately plummets. 

"Mum."

"I want you to be properly better. What did she say about taking a few months off? Did you ask?"

"I'm not re-sitting the year. I don't want to."

"It might not be a case of _want to_ , love."

"Stop making me feel shit about this," Louis says. "I was happy two minutes ago."

"I'm sorry." She sounds contrite. "I just want to make sure that you're going to be all right. I worry about you."

"I know." He tries to rub the inside of his wrist against his jeans. Nick clearly hasn't picked up on what he's doing, because he's not stopping him. He does it again, and then means to stop. "But they said there's support and stuff. They're going to send me all the details. Like I can miss lectures if I have to go to the doctors or counselling or whatever."

"That's something you need to ask the doctor about tonight," his mum says. "I've been making a list. There's the hurting yourself—" Louis blushes, and stops rubbing his wrist against his thigh, "—and I want you to ask for a counselling referral. I don't know why he didn't suggest that a fortnight ago, but I was so caught up in everything I forgot to remind you."

"Oh," Louis says. "He, um—he did mention it? He gave me a referral form, or something."

"Louis. For god's sake. We could have sorted it out a fortnight ago. What did you do with it?"

"Dunno." He shrugs. "It'll be in my room somewhere. Anyway, what's the point? There'll be a waiting list or something and by the time it gets organised I'll be back here. Hopefully, anyway."

"This is why I'm worried about you going back too soon. That form was important, and we can't ignore you hurting yourself, and there's probably some other things you want to get untangled before you move back in with your friends, isn't there?"

"No," Louis says stubbornly. "You can't make me stay at home. I want to come back."

"Louis, it's not—" She lets out a ragged sigh. "This isn't helping either of us. How about we have a proper talk about it tonight? I don't want to upset you. I just want to make sure you're properly looked after, and you'll be a long way from me if you go back to university. I just don't want it to be too soon, that's all. I don't want you hurting yourself when you're all by yourself."

"I won't be by myself."

"I've only got a minute," she says. "Let's not fall out. I just want us to make sure we've covered everything, that's all. We can fix it all, I know we can. Let's just talk about all the options first, all right? Decide which one is the best for you."

"Coming back is the best option." 

"All right. I really have to go, sweetheart. They're about to start the next session. Don't be upset. We'll talk about it all tonight, get your counselling referral sent off anyway."

"I'm not upset."

"I love you very, very much," his mum tells him. "I'm really glad it went well this morning. I'll pick you up at the train station this evening and then we'll go to your appointment, and have a proper talk after that."

Louis nods. "All right." His mood has plummeted. She doesn't think he can do it. 

"Call me any time you need me, all right? I'll come out of the talks again. Ring you straight back."

"Okay."

"Don't get upset. I just want to make sure you're all right."

"I am all right." He lets out a breath. "We can talk about it later, okay? But I'm coming back."

"That's good," she says. "I want you to. At the right time."

"Mum—"

"I'm not trying to make it more difficult for you. I just want you to be doing the right thing, at the right time for you. Oh, I'm sorry. I have to go. I love you."

"Love you too." He says _good bye_ , and then puts his phone down on the table. 

"All right?" Nick asks carefully. Louis doesn't know how much of what his mum said Nick heard; the Christmas music is horribly loud. 

"Suppose," he says. "Mum doesn't think I can do it. I thought she'd be pleased."

"She just wants to look out for you."

"I'm going to be twenty-one next week," Louis says. "I'm already older than everyone else because I had to re-sit year twelve. I'm not doing it again."

"Okay." Nick kisses Louis' temple.

"Don't say that just to shut me up," Louis says. "I'm right." He wants to snap out of sheer frustration. He'd been so sure his mum would have been on his side, but she'd sounded so concerned that he wouldn't be able to do it. For a little while, he'd been caught up in the belief that there was a chance that he could do this, that he wasn't the only person wanting to get a degree at the same time as dealing with being a bit mental. That there was a way through this, even though it all seemed like too much at the moment. But even his mum doesn't think he can do this. 

"Louis—"

"It's fine," Louis says. "I just—I wanted her to be on my side, all right? And she doesn't think I can do it. I shouldn't ever—I should have known."

"It's not that, I'm sure."

Louis doesn't say anything to that. He nudges at Nick's horrible soya drink. It'll be cold by now, anyway. "We should go."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Liam will have lunch ready soon. Don't want to be late."

He stands up and starts to pull on his coat. Just for a minute, he'd felt like things were going to be okay. 

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. 

"Louis—"

Louis lets out a ragged breath. He's angriest at himself. He's always, always angriest at himself. "I'm okay." He's not, not really. He's curiously shaky. 

Nick buttons up his coat and then holds his hand out. 

Louis reaches for him, unable to help himself, and Nick slides his hand into Louis'. 

"She's probably just worried," Nick says, as they make their way outside, still hand in hand. "She'll react differently when you're at home and she can see the options all laid out."

"Maybe." He keeps thinking about that mentor option. What that would mean, in practical terms? A support worker. There's a big part of him that wants to say an immediate _no_ to that, but he keeps thinking back to that list of difficulties. He squeezes Nick's hand, desperate to cling on, even despite everything. "That list," he says finally, once they've rounded the corner and started to walk down the hill. "The one that lady from the disability office gave me."

"Yes," Nick says. "What about it?"

"Do you think all the things on it are cos of—" He stops. "I was just thinking. I thought I was shit at everything. I couldn't do any of that stuff. I never thought it might be—do you think it is? Or is that, like, an excuse? I didn't, like, link any of it. Being shit at uni and feeling, you know, I didn't think that it could be the same thing."

Nick looks impossibly sad. "You're not shit. I think it's the depression."

"Loads of other people have trouble getting essays in on time, though. It's not just me and my brain. And I've been shit before. Year twelve."

"You're not shit. Anyway, I don't think everyone finds it as impossible as you did, though. We can all be a bit crap at stuff. It's not the same as it being an uphill fucking battle just to get out of bed and into lectures. We all have days when we can't be bothered to leave the house. Last week you couldn't even go to the supermarket. It's not the same. Messing around and leaving it to the last minute, and not being able to. It's different. It's your depression."

Louis feels small again. "I hate this."

"I know," Nick says. "I'm sorry."

"I know I've been a pain," Louis says, after a minute. "I know you've been babysitting me all weekend. Stupid easy stuff I should have been able to do with my eyes shut. But still. I sort of wish I wasn't going home. I feel like I only just got you."

Like given any kind of distance, Nick isn't going to want him anymore. 

He hates that feeling. 

"Good thing I'm surgically attached to my phone, then," Nick says. "I'm sorry it didn't go well with your mum."

"It's all right." Louis isn't sure it is, but he can't think about that too much. "It didn't put you off me? All that stuff with the disability office?"

"Why would it? I still like you. Not going to stop fancying you because I had to go to a meeting with you."

"But I come with all this other stuff. Shit stuff like needing a fucking mentor just to get through the year."

"Louis—" Nick stops. He stops in the middle of the pavement, his hand still in Louis'. "Stop it. Stop it."

Louis freezes.

"God, I like you so much. So much, all right? I've been half in love with you since practically the first time I saw you, and I don't care about any of this stuff. I don't care that you're poorly. I mean. I do care, obviously, because I'm a human and have actually feelings and whatever, and I wish you weren't having to go through this, but it doesn't—it doesn't change anything. It doesn't matter that you're depressed. It doesn't matter and it's not going to matter."

"It might," Louis says. "You might wake up one morning and just think I'm too much work."

"No," Nick says. He's stroking his thumb over Louis' palm. "No, Louis."

"God," Louis says. "Sorry. Sorry."

"Just, I don't know." Nick steps a bit closer, into Louis' space. He tilts Louis' chin up with the crook of his finger. He hasn't put his gloves on and his hands are freezing. "You get to come back. You get to have the next six weeks just to focus on getting better, and then you get to come back. And you know what? You've got a safety net, because there's an option if you're not ready to. You can re-sit if you need to, nearer the time."

"I don't want to."

"I know," Nick says. He strokes his thumb over Louis' cheek. "But, like, you've got options you can cross off because they don't work for you. That's better than you had first thing this morning, isn't it? And all that stuff that the uni can do. You didn't have that, either."

Louis knows that's true. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Nick says. He smiles. It's a little rueful. "It's freezing out here."

"Yeah," Louis says. "Come on. Leftovers wait for no man."

Nick bumps his elbow into Louis'. "You sure you're all right?"

Louis thinks for a moment, as they start to walk back down the hill. "I don't know," he says, as truthfully as he can. "But I want to be."

"That's good," Nick says, and Louis doesn't know whether it is or not, but he'll take it. 

~*~

The house is empty when they get there, apart from Liam in the kitchen. 

"Where is everyone?" Louis asks, dropping his coat down over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Nick unbuttons his coat, but is more careful with it once he's taken it off. He folds it up and lays it over Louis'. 

Liam's slicing a loaf of tiger bread. Someone—probably Liam or Niall—has cleaned the kitchen this morning of all their Christmas dinner detritus. "On their way," he says. "I sent Niall to the supermarket and Zayn and Harry both had lectures. Hi, Nick."

"Hi," Nick says, and Louis ducks under his arm and wraps an arm around Nick's waist. "Louis said it would be all right if I came round for leftovers."

"We've got loads," Liam says. "I thought we could have turkey and stuffing sandwiches, but we didn't have any cranberry sauce left after yesterday, so Niall's getting some. Do you want a cold chipolata?"

"Who doesn't love a cold pig in a blanket?" Louis asks, stealing one from the plate. Nick shakes his head. 

"That's revolting," Nick says. "Cold sausages. No way."

Louis opens his mouth to show off what's inside. He chews loudly.

"Sexy," Nick says, but he doesn't remove his arm from around Louis' waist.

"I know," Louis says, swallowing. He bumps his hip into Nick's. "Do you want tea?"

"Wouldn't say no." 

Louis leans over to fill the kettle from the tap. "Liam?"

"Always," Liam says. "Are you going to forget I take sugar again?"

Louis hip-checks Liam out of the way of the sink so he can fill the kettle again, and then puts it back on its little plastic rest as he sets it to boil. "I don't forget, Liam. I never forget anything. I'm just trying to train you into better habits. Nothing wrong with that."

"I just like sugar," Liam says, still slicing up his loaf. "So, uh. The meeting this morning. How did it go?"

Louis shrugs, getting three mugs out of the draining rack. "I can stay," he says. "At least: they're not chucking me out yet."

"Yet?"

"Not at all," Nick says. 

"I can maybe take my exams in the summer," Louis says, reaching for the tea bags. "And I can probably re-do all my essays from this term too, and I can still come back in February and start the second semester. If my mum will let me."

"Lou."

"My mum doesn't think I'm well enough," Louis says, poking the kettle to make it boil faster. "I thought I was doing all right, but Mum doesn't think so. She wants me to wait until September."

"September's ages away," Liam says, a little cautiously. "But February's fairly soon."

Louis doesn't say _congratulations for mastering the calendar_. His sarcasm button has felt pretty muted, recently. "I want to come back, though."

"It's good that they're not chucking you out, though," Liam says, clearly avoiding the giant pitfall that is Louis' mum and how well Louis is. "We were saying that if they chucked you out, we'd all come and make signs and picket the English department until they let you back in."

Louis wrinkles his nose. "What were the signs going to say?"

"Dunno. _Save the Doncaster One_ , I don't know."

"Make me that sign anyway," Louis says. "That's what I want you to do when I get to the front door, come out and meet me with signs."

"Careful," Liam says. "We will, you know."

Louis does know. The kettle finishes boiling and he pours water over each of the tea bags. He almost ignores the sugar, but at the last minute reaches for it, spooning some into Liam's. 

Liam grins at him. It's almost worth the terrible wrongness of sugaring his tea, for that smile.

Louis rolls his eyes at him, and then steps back so that he can press his cheek to Nick's shoulder, and Nick can wrap an arm around him. There's only the tiniest lift to Liam's eyebrows to say that he's noticed the change. It occurs to Louis—rather belatedly—that this is the first time he and Nick have been together—properly together—in front of anyone. His heart skips a little.

"Is this, uh," Liam waggles his fingers at the two of them. "Official, like?"

Louis looks up at Nick. "Dunno," he says. He gives Nick just enough time to jump in and say _no_. Nick just smiles at him. 

"Feels pretty official," Nick says. "Wouldn't you say?"

Louis ducks his head. He knows he's going red. He's never had a boyfriend before, not really. "Yeah."

"Good," Liam says. "You can tell that you both really like each other."

Liam can be so painfully earnest sometimes. It's makes Louis' chest constrict a little. "Thanks," he says. "Is someone going to pass me the milk, or what? Tea waits for no man."

Nick reaches into the fridge, and comes out with the remains of four pints of semi-skimmed. "This all right?"

"Yeah," Louis says. "Does this much milk set off your weird dairy thing?"

"Nah," Nick says. "Well, a bit. It's all right."

"I'll buy you some of that rank soya milk, if you want," Louis says. He feels so curiously shy. "Keep it here."

"I hope you're going to call it revolting every time I make you make me tea."

"Pretty much," Louis says. 

"Excellent," Nick says. "Just do us a splash this time, will you?" He doesn't concentrate on Louis making the tea. "So, Liam, what exactly does this leftover spread include? No sprout sandwiches, I hope."

"No sprouts left," Liam says. "Did Louis tell you about the great sprout catapult championship of 2013?"

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Not really."

"Niall will show you the videos. He put them on YouTube last night. Your mate Stan commented on them this morning, Lou."

"Did he?" Louis still has to text Stan back, and he knows that. He just doesn't know what to say. Every conversation in his head started with, _so you know I've got depression_. 

"Niall will show you. Anyway, we've got butter, bits of turkey, the remains of the stuffing, some chipolatas, a few parsnips—"

"I'm not having cold parsnips on a sandwich," Louis says. "What do you think I am?"

"They might be nice, I don't know. I don't even like parsnips. Anyway, shush, you've ruined my list. Bit of white sauce, few veg. Mostly turkey and stuffing sandwiches, if I'm honest. With Niall's cranberry sauce, if he ever gets home." Liam pushes up his sleeves. It's warm in the kitchen with the heating on. "Bread's all cut up, turkey's on that plate, and stuffing's in the bowl. It's all ready, once everyone else gets home. I even remembered to get the spread out of the fridge."

Louis is staring at Liam's forearm. There's a new tattoo there; arrows pointing towards his wrist. "When did you get that?" he asks. "Your tattoo. It's new."

"Oh," Liam says. He holds his arm out, and rolls up his sleeve so that Louis can see it properly. "Chevrons. Got them last week. Still a bit scabby, but they'll look really good once they've settled down."

"They look good now," Nick says, tilting his head to one side. 

"There are four," Louis says, because he can't not. "There's only four." _Not him_. He wasn't here and there isn't a chevron for him, and he can feel his chest closing up. He doesn't even know that they're for them, and not just completely random, but Liam doesn't do things for no reason. Everything Liam does is for a reason; he's that sort of best friend. 

Liam looks at him. "One for each of you," he says. "I got one for each of you. They're, like, go faster stripes."

Louis can't process that. He wants to, but he can't. He doesn't say anything. 

Nick ducks in to take a closer look. "Not that scabby," he says. "I wish I was braver. I love tattoos. It's the needles, innit? I have ideas, and then I think about the needles. Proper chicken about it. I've just got tiny ones. Yours must have needed loads of colouring in. How long did it take?"

"Ages," Liam says. "I was late to my sound course."

"I was a right wimp when I got mine," Nick says, rolling up his sleeve so that he's got his little anchor out. Louis loves that tattoo. He wants an anchor too. When Nick puts his arm back down by his side, Louis tucks his hand into Nick's, and squeezes. "It's dead little and I was still a giant wuss."

"Yours is nice, though," Liam says, as the front door goes. 

"Hello, mofos," Niall calls, slamming the door after him with a loud bang. "I'm back, and I've brought cranberry sauce. Everyone can rest easy in their beds. The cranberry sauce is here."

He tips into the kitchen still trailing scarves and hat and gloves and coat. He dumps them down on the table along with a Tesco carrier bag. He takes one look at Louis and Nick holding hands, and breaks into a grin. He looks so happy for them that Louis barely knows what to do with himself. Niall bundles Louis into a hug, absolutely ignoring Nick's hand in Louis'. "Brilliant," he says, and hugs Louis harder. "Did it go all right this morning?"

"Pretty all right," Louis says, stepping out of the hug. He leans into Nick's side. It's easy, having Nick by his side. "I want to come back in February. For the new semester."

"Awesome." Niall looks delighted, even as he's unpacking his Tesco bag. Tesco cranberry sauce, a net of clementines, and a pack of new dishcloths. "We needed them," he says, in response to Louis' look of incredulous wonder. "What, it can't just be me and Liam who looks at the stuff we need for the house. Our cloth's disgusting."

"It's all right," Louis says. It's in one piece, at least, and not that grey. "Anyway, I don't need to notice, we've got you and Liam for that. You stick it on the shopping list, and then—"

"—Then you promptly forget to buy it."

"Do not." There's a twinge of something inside his chest that Louis tries not to let show on his face. Everything's a fucking value judgement. Everything comes complete with an emotional minefield that Louis just doesn't have the fucking wherewithal to deal with. Conversations didn't used to be an assault course of trip wires and hidden booby traps. He knows he's not that great a flatmate. They can do better than him. Christ, after Christmas, they're supposed to start looking round for houses for third year. What if they don't want to live with him? Or if he's too much of a risk, not even knowing if he's going to be well enough to be here? "I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I'll try not to forget."

"I wasn't—" Niall says. "It was a joke."

Louis can't always tell what's funny and what isn't anymore. This doesn't feel funny. "Still," he says. "I'm going to be less crap. Going to try, and everything."

"You don't need to be," Niall says. "You should just be, like, you."

"Didn't like me all that much," Louis says. "About time for a change." He tries to sound light. He's not sure how much it works. "New me is going to buy dishcloths. Or whatever I need to buy." He looks round the kitchen a bit desperately, trying to see something that looks like it needs buying. He doesn't see this shit. He doesn't mean to be crap. "Plates. I'll buy plates."

"We've got plates," Liam says. He sounds sad. 

Louis is really, really sick of people sounding sad. "Everyone needs plates," he says. "And I'll buy them. I'll be the plate guy."

"It's better than being the bin guy. Or the guy who only buys toilet duck," Niall says. 

"Do we need toilet duck?" Louis isn't exactly sure what that is. He doesn't really clean. Maybe he should. How long does cleaning take? Do Liam and Niall do it all? There were house meetings about cleaning earlier in the year, but Louis doesn't really remember anything other than party planning and talking about Iron Man. Why can't he just _listen_? He tries to look around the kitchen and actually see what needs doing. Maybe he could do some of it before his train. He just—doesn't notice mess. He doesn't care. The surfaces are mostly free of stuff, and there's a bit of washing up by the sink, and the table is mostly clear. They could just push stuff out of the way to make room. "I could do the washing up. Or clean something else. What needs cleaning? I could do that."

"It's all right," Liam says. "You don't have to do anything. Lunch and presents, that's all."

"Are you staying for presents?" Niall asks Nick. 

Nick shakes his head. "Got a lecture," he says. "Stealing a sandwich and then I've got to run."

And that makes something catch in Louis' chest, too. He hadn't realised Nick would be leaving quite so soon. He doesn't want him to go. He glances at him, and Nick's looking back at him, smiling a little ruefully. He only just got him, and now he's going. 

"Rubbish," Niall says, and then all of their phones start to buzz at the same time, so either Zayn or Harry's sent a group text. It's Harry. 

_Be home in a minute. Stopped to buy dessert. Don't eat all the turkey!_

There's another message off the back of the first, this time to Louis alone. _How did it go this morning? Everything ok?_

Louis texts him back, _hopefully yes. I can come back. See you soon x_

There's no point in explaining properly when he'll be back in a minute. 

They carry all the food through to the living room, Louis dutifully grabbing a pile of plates and a roll of kitchen roll to use as napkins. Niall's cleared the coffee table and they put it all on there, squashing it all on whilst Nick goes back to the kitchen for their cups of tea. Niall sticks the Christmas CD on again, and then Louis tugs Nick down next to him on the sofa, and swings his legs over Nick's thighs. 

"You're not going anywhere," Louis says as Nick slides an arm around Louis' shoulders. "I'm going to keep you here."

Nick leans in and kisses Louis, even as Louis' talking. Louis trails off into a muffled _pfleghgh_. He pats ineffectually at Nick's chest, because Liam and Niall are here, and they're kissing right in front of them. His heart beats a little faster, and Nick pulls away, sliding his hand into Louis'. He's smiling at Louis, and he looks so fond that Louis barely knows how to react, other than to find the tiny spot Nick had missed when shaving, and press his thumb to it. 

"You missed a bit," he says. 

"I know. You've said." He still sounds fond. Louis can't help but wonder what he did to make Nick sound like that, to make him look at Louis like Louis is special. 

He smiles back, ducking his head, and then luckily the front door bangs open, and the house is a flurry of Harry's scarves and Zayn's books, and Louis keeps getting hugged. 

They make huge turkey and stuffing sandwiches, slathering on the cranberry sauce. Niall insists on cutting his into quarters, but Louis is going to eat like a man and get it all in his mouth in one go. 

"Good skill, that," Niall says, and Louis sticks his middle finger up at him, even as he's stuffing his sandwich in his mouth. Louis only chokes a little bit, so he's counting it as a win. Louis ends up going over the meeting with his department twice, including the conversation with his mum, with all of them asking different questions, and in the end he looks pleadingly at Nick to take over. It had been information overload in the meeting, without getting it at home too. 

Nick pretty smoothly shuts the conversation down and starts talking about Christmas instead. 

They have seconds of the sandwiches, until almost all the turkey's gone, and the last bits of the stuffing erections have been eaten. 

"So then, lads," Louis says. "How was your first time eating dick? Answers on a postcard, please."

"Quite thick," Harry says, after pondering. "Quite a mouthful."

"I think I just had balls," Zayn says. "I think I had a bollock sandwich."

"Some people pay extra for that, Zayner," Louis says. He licks his fingers neatly. "At least you all swallowed. What's for pudding?"

"Mince pies," Harry says, jumping to his feet. He is, as usual, reclining in the giant pink beanbag chair. He comes back with a six-pack of Mr Kipling, and hands them round, leaving Louis to last. Louis makes a face at him. "Nobody eat yet, we're going to do a taste comparison. We've got one box of Mr Kipling, one box of Tesco's, and Zayn went to M&S after his lecture and got us some of theirs."

"And I've got a box from Lidl in the cupboard," Liam says, jumping up. 

"I don't even like mince pies," Zayn says. He's already taken a bite, though, so he can't hate them all that much. 

"Nonsense." Louis refuses to countenance such opinions. "Eat up, there's a good chap."

"Hang on," Niall says. "What are we grading them on? What variables?"

"Shut up, science-boy," Louis says. 

"No, I'm right," Niall says. "Everyone put their mince pies down. I'm going to get a page from Zayn's flip chart."

They end up with a giant sheet of flipchart paper spread out over the carpet, and a big table drawn out in the middle of it, with categories like _how much mincemeat_ and _pastry quality_ and _sugar topping_ down one side. 

"Are you always doing shit like this?" Nick asks. He looks a bit bewildered. 

"Yes," Louis says. "Put mincemeat-pastry ratio at the bottom."

"How many mince pies do I have to eat?"

Louis pats Nick on the shoulder. "Four," he says. "Saddle up, big guy."

Nick squares his shoulders. "The things I do," he says, but he slides his hand over Louis' knee anyway. 

Louis can't help but smile. 

It takes them twenty minutes to score each mince pie, and by the end, even Louis is sick of them. Marks and Spencer are the surprise loser, with Mr Kipling coming top, closely followed by Lidl.

"My auntie calls Lidl, _Liddly,_ " Liam says. "I never know whether she's joking or not."

"Ask her," Louis says. "Or ring me up when you next see her, and I'll ask her."

"I'm not asking her," Liam says. "What if she really thinks it's pronounced that way?"

"Then you tell her she's wrong and should be ashamed. I don't know. It's never called Liddly, though, is it?"

"Might be," Liam says. "Do any of us actually really know?"

"To the Google machine," Harry says, reaching for his phone. "How-do-you-pronounce-Lidl. Hey, look, there's a website with sound files. The internet's amazing." He holds out his phone, and a German lady tells them it's pronounced _lee-dil._

"That's still not liddly," Louis says. "Your auntie's still wrong."

"I'll send her a link," Liam says. "Is it time to do presents?"

"It's time for me to go," Nick says, and he sounds regretful. Louis' stomach drops. "Come and see me off, Lou."

Louis clambers awkwardly off the sofa, waiting whilst Nick hugs Harry and high fives the others, wishing everyone a Happy Christmas. He trails Nick out of the living room and watches as he puts his coat and scarf on. 

"I don't want you to go," Louis says, leaning against the kitchen wall whilst Nick buttons up his coat. There's a part of him that sort of wants to cry, which is absolutely, ridiculously stupid. They've only been going out less than a day. But it's just—it's so much more than that. It feels like Nick's taken root in his chest, solid and dependable and warm. 

"I wish I wasn't either." Nick holds his hand out, and Louis takes it. They walk to the front door. 

"Thank you for everything," Louis says again. "For—looking after everything this weekend. For being great." He can't quite look Nick in the eye. He squeezes Nick's hand again. His voice catches, and he doesn't mean it to. 

"Come here," Nick says, and then he's bundling Louis up into a hug, and Louis is hiding his face in Nick's neck. "It'll be all right."

"We barely got to, I don't know—do anything that wasn't me freaking out."

"There'll be other times." Nick slides a hand into Louis' hair. "And I've got a million free minutes on my phone. We could just make a concerted effort to use them all up this month."

"Suppose." He wraps his arms around Nick's shoulders and holds on tight. "Thank you so much."

"I told you," Nick says, pressing his mouth to Louis' hair, "I'm the lucky one. I've fancied you for ages."

Louis tries to laugh at that. He pulls back, and glances down at Nick's mouth, then back up at him. "You still want to—" He stops. "You still want to be my boyfriend?" He isn't asking, _I haven't made you change your mind?_ Except he sort of is. 

"Haven't I said it all along? There's still someone here who wants to shag you."

Louis tries not to make a face. 

"That someone's me, by the way." 

"I'd hoped." He keeps thinking back to Nick that morning, saying, _I've been half in love with you since practically the first time I met you._ There's a part of him that wants to ask about it. He doesn't. He just straightens Nick's scarf instead, making sure the knot's all lined up. 

"Ring me later," Nick says. "I thought we could maybe arrange to meet up in the holidays. I can get the train from Manchester or something."

"I might be able to borrow the car," Louis says. His heart's thumping. "I could drive you somewhere."

"Take me out," Nick says. 

"Like on a date," Louis says, breathless. "A proper date. Something posh."

"I'd settle for Maccy D's and the pictures," Nick says. "For the record." He's smiling, and Louis really, really doesn't want him to go. He touches his thumbs to the corners of Nick's mouth, fingertips to his cheeks, like he's shaping out Nick's face for his memory. 

Nick lets him, staying perfectly still. 

"You'll get there, you know."

Louis nods. He doesn't want to talk about his mental health. He's sick to fucking death of his mental health. He leans in, instead, touching his mouth to Nick's. He doesn't mean to tremble, but Nick kisses him like he's something to protect, like he's something special, and Louis wants to cling to that feeling with both hands, forever. 

Afterwards, he tries to push Nick away. "Go on," he says. "You've got places to be."

Nick rocks back on his heels. He leans in again, and kisses Louis' cheek. "You're brilliant," he says, in Louis' ear, and then he's stepping back, opening the front door and letting in all the cold air. "Ring me later."

"Course," Louis says. Nick lifts up his hand, and then he turns away and starts to walk down the path and out the gate. He looks back. 

"You'll get cold," he says. 

Louis wraps his arms around himself. "Doesn't matter."

"Go inside."

"In a minute."

Nick comes back through the gate, up the path, and slides his hand into Louis' hair, pulling him into a kiss. Nick's mouth is already cold. Louis is shivering. He kisses him back. 

"Go and get warm," Nick says, and then he's kissing him again, short but sweet. His kiss tastes like mince pie and Christmas. "I'll see you."

This time, he closes the door after him, and Louis watches out of the window until Nick's completely disappeared from view. He wraps his arms around himself. 

He goes back into the living room, which he's starting to realise has been conspicuously quiet for the past few minutes. There's a very deliberate kind of loud conversation going on now, though, about the best way to do present giving-out. 

Louis sneaks onto the sofa next to Zayn and hides his face in Zayn's shoulder. "Don't say anything," he says, and Zayn, to his credit, stays quiet. He wraps an arm around Louis' shoulders, his own brand of solid and dependable, and Louis draws his knees up to his chest and stays there until he doesn't feel so much like crying anymore. 

"All right?" Harry asks. He pokes Louis in the ankle with his phone. 

"Yep," Louis says. "Just didn't want him to go." It's more honest than he'd perhaps wanted to be. He's always jumping into things feet first. He falls so easily. It's risky.

The boys look sympathetic, at least. Niall leans over and rubs his shoulder. "You two properly going out, then?"

Louis nods. "Boyfriends and everything," he says, in a small voice. 

"That's great, Lou," Liam says. "Harry says he's liked you for ages."

"Ages," Harry says, dragging the word out. "Since I met him, pretty much."

"Don't know why," Louis says. He doesn't mean to say it. It's the kind of thing he knows he shouldn't say out loud.

Harry stands up just so he can kiss Louis' forehead. "Same reason we all like you. Cos you're great."

Louis knows his smile is weak. "Can we do presents?"

To his relief, they don't spend any more time discussing the inside of Louis' head. They share out the presents instead, all of Louis' presents wrapped in the remains of his mum's last years' wrapping paper. Liam has five presents in front of him, and so do Zayn and Niall and Harry. Louis just has one. It's a rectangular box, a bit bigger than everyone else's. He looks down at it. Maybe he shouldn't have brought presents for everyone. 

"We clubbed together for yours," Liam says. "And there's another one for your birthday, but we're going to give you that one to take away with you, so you can open it on the day."

Oh. "Thanks," he says. "That's great." He watches as Harry opens his presents, including the green and grey skulls and butterflies scarf that Louis had picked out. He immediately wraps it round his neck, beaming. Then it's Niall's turn, and Niall looks delighted by the cheap t-shirt from Louis that says, _LADIES, I PLAY GUITAR_ on the front. There's a little barbecue cookbook in there too, from the discount bookshop, because Niall was always going on about how much he loved barbecues. Zayn hugs him when he opens his Marvel t-shirt and his Lego Iron Man key ring, and Liam doesn't even care that the boxes for his bobble-headed Avengers are all bashed in and that it's fairly obvious Louis must have got them cheap. He lines them all up on the windowsill. 

"Your turn," he says, coming to sit down next to Louis, and this might be the first time in Louis' whole life he's waited to open a present. Normally he's like a gannet, straight in there at the first opportunity. He was the kid that always combed the house when he was little, looking for his mum's hiding places. 

Louis unwraps the box, and undoes the tape holding it together. He opens it up to find a copy of _Iron Man 3_ on DVD, a twelve-inch high Iron Man figure that talks if you press his chest, and underneath them, a burgundy Vans hoodie with a furry lining. 

"It's a girl's hoodie," Zayn says, "but we were swayed by the furry inside."

"You're always cold," Harry says, "and this looked warm."

"Do you like them?" Liam asks. "We thought you might be missing Iron Man at home, cos all the DVDs are here and everything, so we bought you your own copy."

Louis' vision swims a little as he looks into the box. This must have cost a lot of money. He knows how expensive Vans hoodies are. "It's great," he says. "It's so great."

There are hugs after that, and Louis holds on too long, and too tight, but no one calls him on it. He has to leave in half an hour, and he hasn't even packed. He doesn't want to go. 

He just wishes he was well enough to stay, but he isn't, not yet. If anything, this weekend has proved for him just how messed up he still is. But he's getting better. He's on his way. He'll learn to cope. For a moment, it doesn't feel hopeless and too much. It feels just about right. 

He smiles into Harry's hug, and keeps holding on. 

After a while, Liam starts gathering their plates together from lunch. 

"I'll help you clear up," Louis says, when he's all wrapped up in his new Vans hoodie, and he's cycled through each of the sayings of his new Iron Man figure. 

Liam raises an eyebrow. 

"Fine, I'll mooch around and look busy whilst you wash up."

"You could just make the tea."

"All right," Louis says. He tries to gather some of the bowls up from round the living room, following Liam into the kitchen. 

"Have you got time for tea?" Liam asks, putting the plates by the sink. "Haven't you got to go soon?"

"Half an hour. There's always time for tea." He puts the kettle on again, as Liam starts to run the water for the washing up.

"I'll just soak these whilst you do the tea," Liam says. "And then I'll help you pack, if you like."

"Okay," Louis says. His hoodie is really warm and cosy. "Thanks for the presents. I know it's a lot. I really appreciate it."

"We wanted to," Liam says. He pulls on a pair of pink rubber gloves. "We miss you, all right? The place isn't the same without you."

Louis lines up five mugs again. He assumes everyone wants tea. They're wrong if they don't. "I remember what you said before about me being awful. And mean." It's the conversation he hasn't wanted to have. "And I wanted to say I was sorry. Again."

Liam puts the plate back into the sink. Bubbles overflow from the bowl. "Lou, god. No, forget I ever said that."

"I can't," Louis says. "It doesn't matter if I was depressed or not. I was still awful, and I'm still sorry."

"It's not your fault, though. And it really doesn't matter."

"I lashed out because it hurt," Louis says. "I know I was terrible. I was mean to you."

"It was the depression."

"It was me as well." Louis flicks the switch on the kettle as soon as the water starts to bubble. He's not waiting for it to click off automatically. He needs to keep busy. He pours it over the tea bags. "I know I can be mean. I just—you're one of my best friends. I don't want to lose you."

Liam takes his hands out of the washing up bowl, peels off the gloves, and pulls Louis into a hug. "Don't," he says. "You won't lose me. You won't lose any of us."

"I know it's hard. Being friends shouldn't be hard. I wouldn't blame you if, you know, it got too difficult."

He pulls out of the hug and gives the teas a stir. 

Liam gets the milk out of the fridge, and the sugar off the top of the microwave. "You know," he says finally. "You were pretty much the first person in my life that I'd trusted and I was right about. I was always trying to make friends before and I'd think I'd cracked it every time, but I never had. It never ended up the way I wanted it to. I only ever wanted a best mate and I couldn't ever find one. And then I came here and you bugged me into coming out with you lot, and I wanted it so much. I wanted to be friends more than anything else ever, I think, and I trusted you all but I was still waiting for it to go tits up, you know? Because that's what happens. That's what happens to me."

"Liam—"

"Except it didn't," Liam says. "I got all four of you, and I like the person you've helped me become. I like who I am with you all. I never would have got talking to Sophia this time last year. I never would have done that sound course if you lot hadn't pushed me to do something I wanted to. If you think I'm disappearing on you just because you've got depression, then you're wrong. Because you've got me, and you've got the rest of the lads, and you've got Nick, and we're all going to be here. It doesn't matter that you were a dick. It matters that you were ill and you couldn't tell us, and we didn't notice in time. And that's not going to happen again. Because we let you down."

"You didn't. None of you did." That's not how it happened. He'd wanted too much and he'd been wrong for wanting it, and he had to sort his brain out so it didn't make him want unreasonable things anymore. He was going to be less obsessive and less intense and everything was going to go back to normal. He was going to be normal. 

"We did," Liam says. "I'm not talking about messing up about your party. I'm talking about you being ill and not being able to tell any of us, or talk about it with any of us. Cos you were so unhappy, and the only time we knew was when you were leaving. It was too late, and that's not going to happen again. I've been to the Union and to the Counselling Service and they're going to do some stuff next term about mental health. So that people can recognise the signs and everything. Did you know that uni's signing the Time to Change pledge?"

Louis shakes his head. He doesn't even know what that is. He scoops the tea bags out of their mugs, his eyes swimming. His hand shakes. This isn't how it happened. It was different in his head. 

He adds the milk, and steals the Stuart Pearce mug for himself. He doesn't drink. 

"I asked them to do some stuff about self harm too," Liam says. "I went in this morning first thing."

"Liam—"

"No," Liam says. "People need to know what it is and what they can do to help. When you come back we're all going to know. We're going to do better."

Louis puts his tea back down. "It's never been about hurting myself, you know. Like, that came afterwards. Or during, I don't know. But it wasn't about that."

Liam nods. "Do you know, there's a Welfare Officer in the Student Union? Like, that people vote for? And there are elections after Easter for next year?"

"Is there?"

"Yeah," Liam says. "When I went to the Counselling Service and was talking about putting stuff on at the Union, they said I should think about standing. Is that completely mental?"

"Dunno," Louis says. "You do want to change a lot of stuff."

"Me, a Welfare Officer," Liam says. "That's mad, that."

"I'm going to be better when I come back, you know. Less hassle. Relying on you all less."

Liam gets that sad look on his face again. "It's not—that's not what we want. That's not what this is about. We were worried sick when you went home and wouldn't text any of us. We'll cope with whatever we have to cope with. You just need to know that you can share all of this stuff with us. We don't need you to pretend you're okay. We need to know when you're not."

"I'm so fucked up," Louis says softly. "The inside of my head—I don't know if it's fixable. You can't want to know what's going on in there. No one could."

"We do," Liam says. "We're your best mates. You need to tell your mum that you can talk to us about anything. And that you'll have us all if things get bad again. That it won't be like last time, because we won't ever let you get that unhappy again."

"I don't know if you can control how unhappy I am."

"How alone you feel, then. You should tell her that and then she'll be happier about you coming back. She doesn't want you to have to deal with this yourself, I bet."

"Maybe." 

"And I was thinking, maybe you could come over to Wolvo during the holidays. Stay over if you wanted to. See my mum and dad."

Louis looks up. It sounds nice, but he gets anxious. "I might—I get scared," he says. "What if I freak out? I had a panic attack, did I tell you?"

"No." Liam's brow furrows. "If I looked up what to do in case you had one of those, would you think about coming? I'll get my dad to make his spaghetti bolognese. It's great."

Louis nods. "All right. That'd be nice."

"Sick," Liam says. He glances at his watch. "Come on, I'll help you pack. You've got to go in a bit. You okay?"

Louis gingerly tests the inside of his head. Not really. "Doing all right," he says. He grabs Liam's sleeve. "Look, thanks, okay? I've hated this. You and me, like, falling out. I love you, all right?"

Liam's face softens. "Right back at you," he says. "And you've done really, really well this weekend."

Louis lets out a breath. He's not so sure about that. "Tea's up," he calls. "And it's packing time."

Liam just bumps his elbow into Louis'. "Love you," he says softly. "We all do."

Louis just needs to figure out a way to be worthy of that. 

~*~

Packing takes on a bizarre, convoluted edge. Niall takes the lead, whilst Louis drinks his tea sitting on his bed. Liam is on folding duty, Niall is on getting it all in the suitcase and the bag duty, Zayn is on important leaning-against-the-wall duty, and Harry keeps stepping over them all to see if Louis wants to take this bit or that thing home with him. It's weird, thinking he might not be back here until February. 

Right in the middle of his suitcase is his birthday present—wrapped in actual birthday paper, and not re-purposed Christmas paper, like so many other people do when it comes to his birthday—and Niall is fitting his clothes round it. All Louis has to do is put his dirty underwear into a Tesco carrier bag, for Niall to squish in. 

"I'm not handling your dirty keks," Niall says, making room for a pair of Louis' trainers and four DVDs. When he'd left last time, he'd just taken _stuff_ , with no particular thought about how long he'd be away for. Now he's trying to take things that he might need, like his external hard drive and some hoodies and more than one pair of skinny jeans. 

"How about this t-shirt?" Harry asks. "Or this one?"

"If they'll fit in," Louis says, sipping his tea. Liam gets on with folding his t-shirts. Harry carefully unpins four or five photographs from Louis' noticeboard, and slips them into the front pocket of Louis' case. 

"So you don't forget what we look like," Harry says. "So you know what you're coming back to."

"Better put that one of us in fancy dress from first year in, then," Louis says, and Harry dutifully searches the noticeboard until he comes to the one where they're all dressed up, and drunk, and covered in shaving foam and silly string. 

Good times. 

But then Niall is zipping shut the suitcase, and doing up the straps on his bag, and Zayn's coming back upstairs with some leftovers in a bag for him to take on the train. It really is time to go. He lets them drag his stuff downstairs, and then he's putting on his coat and putting his train tickets in his pocket, and making sure he's got his phone and his charger. And then all five of them are standing in the hall again, and Louis is leaving, and he's been here before. 

"Haven't we done this before?" he asks, dropping his keys in his pocket. 

"Different this time, though, innit?" Zayn says. "You're coming back."

"Yeah," Louis says, and he hugs each one of them in turn, Niall the hardest, and Harry the tightest, and Zayn with whispered _I'm sorry—no I'm sorrys_ , and Liam the last. 

"This isn't good bye," Liam says fiercely, tugging him into a hug. "It wasn't good bye last time, and it's not this time either."

Louis nods. He's still wearing his new, furry-on-the-inside Vans hoodie, and it's cosy-warm under his too-thin coat.

"You know we're all going to Skype on Christmas day, right? And you know you can ring us any time?" Niall looks a bit awkward, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Any time. About anything."

"I know," Louis says. "I really know."

"Good."

"I have to go," Louis says. "I don't want to miss the bus."

He's going to cry. He knows he's going to cry, but he wants to do it outside of the house, walking down the road where none of them can see. 

"See you," Harry says. "Don't forget our day in Manchester."

"I won't," Louis says, and then he's dragging his stuff out of the front door and into the street. It's already dark and it's freezing cold, and it's just the sort of melancholic weather to say good bye in. He stands in the street and waves at them, then he turns around and walks down the road, away from the house. 

This time, as he wipes his nose on his sleeve, and tries not to cry more than a little bit, it doesn't feel like an ending. It doesn't much feel like a beginning either, but at least it doesn't feel like last time. He doesn't ever, ever want to feel like that again. Like the world's closing in on him, and he's the only person left, alone and isolated and so, so sad. 

This time there's hope. 

When he gets to the main road, he doesn't see the bus disappearing into the distance, which he takes for a good sign. According to his watch he's got a couple of minutes, and that, coupled with the fact that he can see someone else already waiting in the bus shelter, is enough to give him hope he hasn't missed his bus. He doesn't rush. He concentrates on breathing instead, on getting himself under control, on thinking about what's waiting for him at home instead of what he's leaving behind. He can't give in and cry.

He's partially successful, and so long as he doesn't look like a wreck to the person in the bus stop, and the people on the bus when it turns up, he's counting it as a win. 

Except. 

The person in the bus stop is Nick. 

"What the fuck," Louis says, when he sees Nick perched on the red bench in the bus shelter. "Nick?"

Nick slides awkwardly to his feet. 

Louis points a finger at him. It shakes. "I thought you had a lecture. You had to rush off. We said bye." 

"Thought you might like some company to the train station." Nick looks so tall and uncomfortable and a bit like he's worried he's done the wrong thing, and Louis definitely doesn't want him to look like that. He's holding a gift bag. "I don't have to. Not if you don't want me to."

Louis lets out his breath all in a whoosh. He dumps his case and his bag on the floor and chucks himself at Nick, wrapping his arms around him. "I want you to," he says, pushing his cold nose into Nick's neck. "I really want you to."

Nick kisses his temple, wrapping him up in a hug. "I thought it might be too much," he says. "I texted Harry to see what he thought, and he told me to come."

"I'll buy him an extra birthday present," Louis says, face still buried in Nick's neck. His breath hitches. He'd tried so hard not to properly cry leaving the boys behind, but now he has to say goodbye all over again. "Did you really have to go to a lecture?"

"Had to go and get the rest of your Christmas present," Nick says, and he untangles himself from Louis' hug. "Bus is coming, come on. Give me your case. You get your bag."

"Oh," Louis says. "I didn't—I didn't get you anything."

"I didn't have anything for you until today. Just accept it, all right? I don't want anything in return." He sticks his arm out for the bus to stop. 

"I'll get you something," Louis says. "For the next time I see you. When we go out in the holidays." He goes up on his toes and kisses Nick's cheek as the bus slows down, then they both get on and pay their money. They get the seats right along the back of the bus, putting Louis' stuff on the spare seat by the window, Nick taking the aisle seat so he can stretch out his legs. 

"All right," Nick says, and Louis presses as close as he can, tucking his hand in Nick's elbow. It's cold on the bus, even in his new, warm hoodie. "Present time?"

"I feel bad," Louis says. "I got the others things, but I didn't get you anything."

"Don't," Nick says. "Really. It's only little things. I went to the shops and then came home and wrapped them up, then came to meet you. Not a big deal." He hands Louis a gift bag; it has sparkly deer on the side and they have baubles hanging off their antlers. 

"Cool." 

"I know," Nick says. "If I had antlers, I'd hang baubles off them too. You know, so that people knew how fabulous I was as soon as they looked at me."

"I know how fabulous you are," Louis says, tugging the gift bag onto his lap. There's tissue paper at the top, and he pulls it out, dumping it in Nick's lap. Inside are four packages. "Which one do I open first?"

"Any," Nick says. "Oh, I got you a card, too." He pulls it out of his bag. It's a bit bent. 

Louis opens it, and on the front is a majestic stag wrapped in tinsel. Inside, Nick's written, _still think you're brilliant. Merry Christmas, love Nick xxxxxxxx_

It sits in his lap for a moment, leaning up against the gift bag. Louis trembles. "This morning you said you were half in love with me," he says, and he didn't mean to say that out loud. His hands are so cold. The bus is mostly empty. 

"Yeah," Nick says, after a pause. "I did."

"Right," Louis says. "Were you lying?"

"No," Nick says softly. "Well. Yes. A bit."

Louis' head jerks up. 

"More than half, really," Nick says. "Quite a bit more. If I'm honest."

"Nick."

"It's all right. I know it's too soon. There's no pressure, all right? For anything."

Louis leans his cheek against Nick's shoulder. He can't say anything, not yet. "Not yet, all right?"

"Okay."

"I don't mean I don't, I just—I don't trust my brain. The wrong stuff is so loud sometimes. Let me listen to it a bit. Trust it."

"I told you. No pressure. I mean it. You and me, we're exactly what you need us to be, okay? We can talk about it and everything."

"Not now, though?" Louis doesn't want to waste their last half hour together talking shit out he doesn't quite have a handle on yet. He's fairly sure he's beyond just falling for Nick, that this feeling in his chest is the beginning of something a lot deeper, that there's love taking root inside of him. It feels steady and safe, like virtually nothing else in his life. But he can't, not yet. It's safe where it is, nestled up inside his chest. Maybe it's not strong enough to survive out in the cold just yet. 

"Open your presents. I bought ribbons and everything."

"Very professional," Louis says. Each of the packages is quartered in gold ribbon, the ends curled. "Did you curl them yourself?"

"Got Gillian and Aimee to help. They properly mocked me and everything."

"You should tell them I was desperately impressed," Louis says. His fingers tremble. "Tell them I promised to take you to bed next time we see each other. They won't mock then."

"Should think not," Nick says. "Do I need to write that promise down, or will you remember?"

Louis bumps his shoulder into Nick's. "I'll remember," he says. He gets the first present out. It's square and soft. He slides the ribbon off, and unwraps it. It's a soft, pale grey scarf, the stitches small. It's so warm against his fingertips. 

"Can't have you catching cold," Nick says, and Louis wraps it round his neck. 

"How's it look?"

"Pretty hot," Nick says. "Do you like it?"

"Course," Louis says. It's lovely, soft and warm and long. He burrows down in it, so that only his nose is visible. "Fetching, right?"

"Definitely," Nick says. "Open the next one. We're on a schedule, here."

Louis laughs. The next present is a matching pair of grey gloves, and a grey, chunky knit beanie. He puts the hat on and tucks the gloves into his pockets. "I won't ever be cold now."

"That was the plan."

The next present is a Terry's Chocolate Orange.

"You can't have Christmas without a Chocolate Orange," Nick says. "It's a thingummy. Rule."

"Right," Louis says. He tucks it back into the bag, and then gets the last present out. It looks CD-shaped, and feels like a CD to his exploring fingers. "Is it a pony?"

"Yep," Nick says. "I flat-packed it."

"That was good thinking. Cos of the train, and everything."

"You probably can't take an un-flatpacked pony on a train. You need to be able to fold them up, like bikes."

"It's good you thought of that," Louis says. He can't get the ribbon off this one; he struggles with it a bit, and then manages to hook it over one corner so it all comes loose. When he tears the paper off, he can see it's a homemade CD, with an insert slipped in the front. 

"I know it's a bit last century to make you an actual mix CD."

"Sometimes it's all right to be a bit old-fashioned." The inlay says LATCH in big letters on the front, and when he opens the box, there's a tracklisting on the inside in Nick's spidery handwriting. "Nicholas, is this your shagging playlist?"

"Bits of it," Nick says. "I put _It Only Takes A Minute_ on as a bonus track, look."

"You remembered."

"Course," Nick says. "I know it's a bit silly, like. But I thought if you were at home and you were a bit bored, you might want something to listen to."

"It's great," Louis says. "I'll bore everyone in the house with it. I'm the eldest, I get to decide what we listen to."

"Just don't tell them it's based off of my shagging playlist, then. I want to make a good impression."

Louis slips his presents back in the gift bag and tucks his gloves in on top. "Do you want to come to mine over Christmas?" he asks, without looking up. "You could make a good impression in person."

"Oh," Nick says. "Do you want me to?"

"I asked, didn't I?" He tucks his hand into Nick's. They're getting close to the train station; he'll have to say good bye for real, soon. "It'll be pretty boring, probably. I'm not up for, like, drinking Donny dry or anything."

"That would be great. I was going to be dead cheeky if we couldn't figure out a time to properly see each other and see if I could crash your day with Harry in Manchester, come and see you both and have a coffee or something, but this is better."

Louis wriggles. "You could do that too. Just saying."

"Maybe. When do you want me to come?"

"I was thinking, like, New Year's Eve? But you've probably got stuff on already, it's all right if you have. You could stay over. I usually go out, but I'll probably just be at home this year. But only if you haven't got anything on. We can do another day."

Nick leans over and kisses his cheek. He's smiling. "I'd love to. Thanks."

The bus pulls up, and Louis grabs his stuff. Nick takes his bag for him as they clamber off, suitcase in tow. They stand to the side of the main entrance. There's no one manning the ticket gates. 

"You could come onto the platform with me," Louis suggests, trying to prolong saying good bye. "The gates are open."

"All right." Nick's still carrying Louis' bag. They go through the gates and out onto platform one; Louis' train leaves from platform four, and they have to go up the stairs with Louis' case and down the other side.

On platform four, they go into the café, and Louis buys them both a cup of tea in cheap takeaway cups with lids that leak. He gets soya milk for Nick, and is rewarded with the kind of smile that makes Louis' stomach jump. 

Afterwards, they stand awkwardly on the platform and wait for Louis' train. They stand by a blocked up window into the waiting room, and rest their tea on the windowsill. Louis wraps his arms around Nick's waist and rubs his cheek over Nick's shoulder. 

Nick leans down and kisses him. "About coming to see you. Are you sure your mum will be okay with me coming for New Year's?"

Louis nods. "I reckon so. I'll check, though." He keeps stroking his thumbs over Nick's wool coat, catching his fingertips in the curve of Nick's elbows. "Just to warn you, I've never brought anyone home before. My family will be all over you like a rash. They'll want to know everything about you."

"A proper boyfriend interrogation," Nick says, and he's smiling. It does the oddest, queerest, most wonderful things to Louis' insides. _Boyfriend_. "I'll prepare for it and everything. Practice my answers. You'll need to find out what they're going to ask me and sneak me the questions so I can prepare properly."

"Show off," Louis says, and he rolls up onto the balls of his feet, hands curving around Nick's bicep. "I like getting to call you my boyfriend."

Nick bites his lip. "Me too," he says, and Louis isn't sure which one of them leans in first, but Nick's mouth is on his, and his hand is sliding into Louis' hair, and Louis is kissing him back. His heart's pounding, and for the first time in weeks, it feels good. Exciting and lovely and nothing else at all. It's just a breath of a moment, anxiety settling back in as he steps back onto his heels. 

He leans in to kiss him again, and Nick cups his face in his hands and strokes his thumbs over Louis' cheeks. 

"You're so lovely," Nick says. 

Louis kisses him again. He can't help it; they're so close to a goodbye. " _You're_ lovely," he counters, and Nick smiles against his mouth, kissing him again. 

The train starts to pull into the station. 

They pull away, breathless, and Louis makes a big deal of shouldering his bag and grabbing his deer gift bag as Nick hands him his tea before taking the suitcase. They stand by the edge of the platform, behind the yellow line, as the train slows to a halt. 

Louis feels almost giddy. "I can come back," he says, bumping his elbow into Nick's. Tea splashes out of his crap takeaway cup lid. "I can really come back."

"I know, and I'm so fucking glad for you." Nick's eyes go all crinkly when he smiles. It turns Louis' stomach upside down. "You can do this, you know. Figure out how to manage it all. You can do it. You can prove it to your mum, too."

Louis isn't so sure of that. He's not so sure of anything anymore. The inside of his head still feels like a stranger to him. "Maybe, maybe not," he says, because if he's learnt anything from this experience, it's that things change. "But I'm going to try."

The train doors slide open next to them then, and Louis reaches down for the handle of his case, but Nick's there before him. He lifts it onto the train for Louis, putting it just inside the door. He stands on the platform, all wrapped up in his long wool coat and his thick scarf, and he smiles helplessly at Louis in the train doorway. 

"I really, really like you," he says, and that's different to _I'm more than half in love with you_ , but Louis hears it anyway. "Oh god, your birthday present. Here." He shoves a DVD-sized bag at Louis. "Can't believe I almost forgot."

Louis rolls his eyes. He leans out the door to kiss Nick quickly. "You're fucking brilliant," he says. "And I owe you a Christmas present."

"I'll collect it at New Year," Nick says, and Louis' face curves into a smile, unable to help himself. 

The doors start to close with a loud beep-beep, and Louis is left staring through the glass at Nick on the platform. He raises his hand, and Nick does the same. 

"I'll see you," Nick mouths, as the train starts to move, and Louis watches helplessly through the glass as Nick gets smaller and smaller, until he's just a blur on the platform, and then nothing at all. 

_Yeah,_ Louis thinks, wiping his nose on his sleeve as he shoves his suitcase into the luggage rack. He shoulders his other bag, trying to balance his tea, and he's already pulling out his phone as he makes his way down the aisle to find a seat. There are messages from Liam and Zayn and Niall and Stan, and a Snapchat from Harry, and an email from Eleanor with a subject line that says _Merry Christmas xxx_. There's a voicemail from his mum. He ignores them all in favour of thumbing open a new message to Nick once he's dropped down onto a free seat, bag on the floor between his feet. _Miss you already xx thanks for this weekend xx see you soon xx_

He has to hide his smile as his phone pings with a message. _Can't wait until new year. I'll work on my skills to impress your mum and the fam xx_

Another one arrives immediately after that one. _Sorry I'm the kind of boyfriend to send nine million messages. Have a good trip back and don't worry about your mum. Good luck at the doctors tonight. Xx_ It comes with a pile of emojis. 

Louis looks out of the window, covering his hand with his mouth so that the people sitting around him can't see how much he's smiling. _Boyfriend_. It feels good. Being with Nick feels good. Starting to work things out with his friends feels good. He likes that everyone knows about him being ill. He's still ashamed; his head is a mess, and he's not normal, and that's not going to go away just because everyone knows. He might never be normal, and he doesn't understand why he picked the depression short straw instead of one of his friends, but for the first time in a long time, things are starting to feel okay. Like there's a future of some kind somewhere out there, just waiting for him. 

Like it's going to be all right. 

Like he's going to be all right. 

Like he _is_ all right. He's just getting through it. He's holding on. 

He drops his phone down into his lap, and watches the countryside race past in the darkness. 

He's going to keep holding on. 

[end]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3 It wouldn't have been realistic for Louis to be completely better, but I don't see why you shouldn't get a happy ending even if you're in the middle of a depressive phase. He's sorting things out with the people he loves, and he's obviously got a lot of stuff still to work out - his thought processes are still distorted, and its unlikely he's going to be able to untangle them without some help - but he's on his way. That feels like a happy ending to me. <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](https://twitter.com/sunsetmog) // [mix](https://8tracks.com/magicalrocketships/not-your-fault-but-mine)


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